


How the Mighty Fall

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Cannibalism, Character Death, Cults, Daemons, Dragons, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jack Crawford Being an Asshole, M/M, Masturbation, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Murder, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Someone Help Will Graham, Soul Bond, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-04-24 11:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14354391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: In a world where two out of three people have daemons and dragons exist, those bonded to dragons are a rare sighting among civilians. With a dragon-worshiping cult committing murders left, right, and center, Will and Jack need help to catch the leader. A dragon cannot be compelled to do anything - thankfully, Hannibal and his beast seem more than happy to assist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well the good news is this is the last one on my list of WIPs to start. The bad news is, I have another WIP to work on. So...yay?
> 
> I love dragons. Anyone who has known me longer than ten seconds knows how much I love dragons. I just........love dragons. And I love the idea of Hannibal having a dragon. And I love the idea of that dragon being a little shit to him and also eating people with him like an overgrown house cat begging for tuna. I love it.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! <3

**Then;**

Teeth. It's always down to the teeth.

Whether they're in a bowl of broth, buried in a flowerbed, or left amongst the dropping of pigs or whatever other animal that can be convinced to eat meat and bone, one must always be careful of the teeth.

Hands bloodied, eyes shadowed, Hannibal stalks through the cellars of his ancient home. At his back, a man is dragged in chains. He'll grow old and grey before he ever sees the sun again.

"Please!" the man shrieks. Hannibal ignores him. He is still a slender thing, a lion cub that is destined to become one of the big cats, but true prey animals know to be afraid of what a future king might become.

In his other hand, the pitiful man's rat daemon lies limp, unconscious. He gives its neck a squeeze and the man whimpers.

He comes to a stop at one of the cells and turns, jerking his head into the filthy, black-molded stone cell, the moisture in the corners growing fungus, the roof dark with leftover soot. "Get in," he barks, and the man shivers and goes inside.

Hannibal smiles, shutting and locking the gate. He throws the keys away.

"Please!" the man cries, throwing himself against the bars. Hannibal steps back, appalled when one of the man's filthy hands touches his torn coat. "Please. Be kind. I need Kara."

"Kara," Hannibal repeats, looking down at the rat. He is a small, brown-speckled thing, meek and tender in Hannibal's palm, barely large enough to cover it. He cradles the rat gently in both hands. "Short for Karalius?" he asks.

The man nods. It is the Lithuanian word that means 'King'.

Hannibal's mouth twitches in a smile. "Were you kind to Mischa?" he asks, and steps forward. The man flinches back with a whimper and Hannibal's upper lip curls in a snarl. "Did you put her to sleep, slit her throat and hold her while she bled to death? Or did you butcher her, like a pig?"

The man moans, holding his head in his hands, and falls to his knees.

Hannibal slams his hand flat against the bars. "Answer me!"

"We snapped her neck," the man replies. "Quickly. She felt no pain."

Hannibal smiles, stepping back again. "Then nor will Kara," he says, and the man screams as Hannibal takes the rat's head and snaps it quickly away from its body. He drops the animal on the outside of the bars and the man reaches through, sobbing, his fingers petting over the animal's soft fur.

"Goodbye, rat," Hannibal says dispassionately, and turns around, the man's screams and cries falling on deaf ears. He ascends the stairs and closes the doors to the cellar and the man's voice is swallowed by thick iron and darkness.

He is about to leave when he hears a skittering, a familiar chirp. He gasps, his eyes wide, and turns towards the source of the sound. One of his mother's favorite tapestries had been torn down and lies in thick, swooping folds along the wall leading to the main door. There is movement beneath it.

Hannibal runs over and pulls the tapestry to one side, revealing Mischa's dragon. She is young, barely the size of a small house cat, and she straightens and chirps in recognition at Hannibal, her gentle eyes dark and knowing. She knows her mistress is dead.

"Oh, darling," Hannibal says when the dragon lets out a low, mournful noise. "I know. Come here," he says, and holds out his arms. The dragon sniffs at his fingers, frills around her head flaring out, and then she wriggles into his arms and lets out a tiny puff of smoke, tucking her muzzle into Hannibal's elbow.

Hannibal holds her tightly, his head bowed, and he lets the tears he had been holding back start to fall. They will be the last he sheds for his parents, his lost home, his sister whom he so readily devoured. The dragon's warm, fine scales are tender under his touch and he pulls back to see that the wing has been badly bruised, she looks very thin, but the fire stone in her chest shines brightly, untouched.

She is very lucky. A dragon's stone could fetch a King's ransom, even that of a baby.

The dragon blinks at him, eyes dark and wide, and her tongue snakes out to taste Hannibal's tears. Hannibal closes his eyes as he feels the dragon's consciousness reach for his own. Dragons only hatch for and bond with their chosen human, and when that human dies, they run the risk of turning feral. Hannibal knows that it is only because of the bloodline he shared with his sister, and the fact that her meat still sits in his gut, that the dragon is not attacking him on sight.

She is still young. She may recover.

"I'm going to take care of you," Hannibal vows, and hears the dragon's purr in his head. Hannibal does not have his own daemon, as one in three people are born without them. As a result, the dragon fills the empty space in his mind, purring and pleased that she has found a suitable replacement for her bonded human.

"What should I call you?" he asks, stroking his thumb over the joint in her shoulder, her claws digging into his arm like a cat's and holding tight as he pushes himself to his feet.

She climbs onto his shoulder, her tail wrapping around his neck to hold her steady, and nuzzles his cheek. A name floats into his ear; "Mischa," she says.

Hannibal swallows, pressing his lips together, and closes his eyes. "She's gone," he says.

The dragon purrs, wings fanning the air gently. "I know," she replies. "But that is my name."

Hannibal nods. A dragon's name cannot be argued, nor their will contested. He lifts his eyes, his eyes on the heavy doors leading to the cellar for a long moment, before he turns and leaves the estate. He will never come here again.

 

 

**Now;**

"The Red Dragon Cult is an organization that has plagued Maryland for some time now. Their leader is as good as a ghost. He founded the organization as some kind of pseudo-religion in the Annapolis area."

"I'm sure the Mormons were thrilled."

Jack glares at Will, warning him against any further attempt at humor. Will huffs, biting his lower lip, and gestures for Jack to continue. "We haven't been able to find their leader, cut off the head of the snake." he says. "The guy is more slippery than an eel covered in oil."

"I'm confused," Will says. "What crimes do you think they've been committing?"

"They're murderers," Jack says darkly. "Every single one of them."

"Can you prove that?"

"No," Jack replies, huffing a breath. He rubs a hand over his face and sits back, regarding Will calmly. "How long have you been teaching psychoanalysis, Will?"

Will frowns, dropping his gaze. "A long time," he replies quietly.

"And do you believe that there's a certain predisposition for people with daemons and dragons, to commit murder?"

Will smiles. "I don't think I should answer that, Jack," he says. "For both our sakes."

Jack huffs. He takes a sheet of paper from the thick case file in front of him and hands it to Will, who takes it. "Read this."

Will blinks down at the paper, adjusting his glasses. It's a print-out from a website that he doesn't recognize. "Where did you get this?" he asks.

"Our cyber crime division sent it to me," Jack replies. "Read it."

Will looks down at the paper again. "And I saw him," he begins. "He had scales of night, and a crown of gold on his head, and his wings blocked out the sky. I heard his voice in my head, asking for a heart. I would have given him mine, but he did not want it. He demands the heart of a female. I will harvest it tonight and offer it to him."

He blinks, setting it down.

"That was posted the day before another body turned up," Jack says. "The woman was missing her heart."

"Jack, these are the words of a fanatic," Will says, shaking his head. "And there are no dragons here. They all belong to the military."

"Nevertheless," Jack says, sitting forward.

"I'm not a dracologist," Will murmurs, setting the paper down. "I couldn't tell you if any of this is true."

"No, I know that," Jack replies, smiling tightly. "I'm interviewing one this afternoon. I would like you to join me."

"Oh," Will murmurs, his voice low and dark with understanding. "I see."

"Will you do it?"

"I don't suppose I have a choice," Will says mildly. "You have a way of asking for favors that leaves little room for argument."

"It will be important for you to see what I cannot," Jack says. "This man may very well be the leader of the Red Dragon Cult. I need to borrow your imagination."

Will sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Very well," he murmurs.

 

 

Hannibal blinks as he opens the door and is immediately greeted with the sight of two men. One of them regards him with a stern expression. "Doctor Lecter?" he asks, flashing his badge that denotes him as an FBI Agent.

Hannibal presses his lips together, looking over his shoulder. "I hate to be discourteous, but this is a private exit, and is reserved for my patients."

The man hums. He has sharp eyes and heavy, grim features. Not a man who is used to being taken lightly or refused. "I'm Special Agent Jack Crawford, with the FBI," he says, folding his badge away. The man at his side has his eyes downcast, hidden behind glasses and a thick mop of hair. He looks withdrawn and pale and Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "May I come in?"

"May I ask what this is about?" Hannibal murmurs, stepping to one side to allow Jack and the second man to enter. He is about to close the door when he hears hoof beats, and raises his eyebrows as he sees the shadow, and then the shape, of a pure black stag. The animal is huge, its head lowered so its horns do not scrape the walls or the ceiling, though the horns could easily touch them. Daemons do not take on blood or dirt from their walks and so Hannibal allows it inside and wonders which of the men it belongs to.

"This is all about you," Jack says, stepping in and immediately making his way to Hannibal's desk. Hannibal closes the door behind the stag and watches as it goes to the window, staring out, apparently finding a supreme lack of interest for anything in Hannibal's study.

The second man hovers at the door.

"I'm sorry," Hannibal says, and holds out a hand to him. "We haven't been properly introduced."

The man raises his eyes, revealing them to be a lovely mesh of blues, like the ocean when a storm is coming. "Will Graham," he says softly, his voice low. He bites his lower lip, shifts his weight, and shakes Hannibal's hand quickly before letting it drop.

"Are you expecting another patient?" Jack asks.

"We're all alone," Hannibal replies.

Jack turns, regarding him with a raised eyebrow. "No secretary?"

Hannibal smiles, fighting back the urge to demand Jack get on with it, or to leave. "Was pre-dispositioned to romantic whims," he says, the lie coming smoothly. "Followed her heart to the United Kingdom." He pauses, his eyes on Will again. "Sad to see her go."

Jack hums, and thumbs through a stack of Hannibal's sketches. He lifts the top one. "Are these yours, Doctor?"

Hannibal nods, and leaves Will to correct the stack from Jack's hands. "Among the firsts."

"Incredible amount of detail," Jack notes.

Hannibal smiles. "I learned early that a scalpel cuts a better point than a pencil sharpener."

Jack hums again. "I understand your drawing got you an internship at Johns Hopkins."

Hannibal breathes in deeply, swallowing back a flash of impatience. He notes that the stag has turned its head and is looking up into the second level of Hannibal's study. The animal, unlike most of its kin, doesn't show any fear. He wonders if its master has noticed.

"I'm beginning to think you are investigating me, Agent Crawford," Hannibal says coolly.

Jack looks at him, before his face melts into a genial smile. "Yes. Forgive me. I am given to understand you are somewhat of a local expert on dragons."

"An expert? No," Hannibal replies. "But I have studied them in whatever limited capacity I am able."

"And what limited capacity would that be?" Jack asks.

At the window, the stag lets out a soft huff, and Will's head snaps up as he looks at the animal. Ah, so the stag is Will's. Interesting. Will's eyes follow the line of the stag's and he lets out a quiet breath, his eyes wide and awed.

Hannibal's smile widens. "Mischa?" he calls, looking up. "Would you mind greeting our guests?"

Above them, a soft growl rumbles through the air, and one of the shadows moves, grows shape and form, and a point of light starts as Mischa uncurls, revealing the fire stone sitting in her chest. She stretches out like a large cat, her black scales shining in the lights of Hannibal's study. The frills around her horns and down her back are thin and translucent but the same black color, turning red at the spines on her tail. Her forehead is covered with a thick spattering of golden scales that match the color of her eyes, and she curls her head over the bannister, the wood creaking under her weight. Her tail unwraps and hangs down, curling gently around the ladder between the two levels.

She is the size of a large horse, not including her wingspan and tail, and gives a rumble of greeting when Jack meets her eyes.

Her tongue snakes out, tasting the air, and then her sharp eyes move to Will, and the stag. She lets out another chirp, this one much more playful, her tail swishing like an excited housecat.

Jack swallows. Hannibal can smell through Mischa's nose, sense his instinctive fear. All prey animals react the same way.

"So, you are a dragon rider," he says, forcibly calm.

Hannibal huffs, setting his sketches down. "Of a sort," he replies.

"I thought all dragons were drafted for the military." It's Will who says that, and when Mischa's attention turns to him, Hannibal catches a flash of her senses through her eyes. The heat in Will's chest and head as a mammal, the rate of his heart, the sharpness of his aftershave. But no fear.

Hannibal tilts his head to one side and regards Will. "We are not American-born," he replies coolly. "And by the time we came here, she was too old to be drafted."

Will's eyes snap to Hannibal's. His brow furrows. "…She?" he repeats.

Hannibal nods.

"I thought dragons and daemons matched the gender of their masters."

"Agent Crawford, it appears you already have a dracology expert in your ranks," Hannibal says mildly. Will flushes, ducking his head.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. It is common knowledge that one would do well to avoid insulting the pride of a dragon or their master, if one wanted to keep their head.

Hannibal smiles. "Forgiven."

Next to Will, the stag has its eyes on Mischa, ears forward and nostrils flared. Unlike humans, Mischa's senses do not give her or Hannibal any clues to the stag's emotions or thoughts. Daemons don't even carry with them a scent, making them almost impossible to detect except with the eyes. They can be almost silent when they need to be, as they are less an animal bonded to a person, and more an extension of the master themselves.

The stag huffs, and walks forward, towards the ladder. Mischa lets out a quiet, delighted sound, her pleasure touching Hannibal's mind as she uncurls and climbs over the bannister, dropping down to the main level. Hannibal sees Jack take a step back, but Will doesn't flinch.

Mischa and the stag are almost the same size, the stag's thick pelt and dark horns shining in the light from Mischa's fire stone. Hannibal smiles – it is so rare that Mischa finds a daemon large enough to play with.

"Be gentle, darling," he says to her across their silent bond. "We wouldn't want to break him."

"Doctor Lecter," Jack says, calling Hannibal's attention back to the man. "What do you know of the Red Dragon Cult?"

Hannibal blinks. "A group of fanatics," he says. "Nothing more."

"They worship dragons," Jack says. "And last week a sensational post depicting a dragon very much like yours was posted online, hours before a murder occurred."

Hannibal huffs, managing a tight smile. "I'm afraid, Agent Crawford, that unlike daemons, dragons are physical creatures. They need exercise. I allow Mischa to fly over unpopulated farm areas per the permit I acquired when we moved here. Unfortunately, I cannot control who sees her."

"But you don't think it's strange?" Jack presses. "This post said that the dragon asked for a woman's heart, and then a woman turns up with her heart removed."

Hannibal swallows. "That is…troubling indeed," he replies. "But I feel I must tell you that it's impossible – a dragon cannot be heard except in the mind of their bonded. Or their beloved."

Will makes an uncomfortable sound. "Doctor Lecter, would you mind…?" Hannibal regards him, and Will jerks his head to where Mischa is sniffing the stag, her tail curled around its neck and her muzzle pressed against the thick hair at its shoulders. Hannibal can feel her pleasure, hear her purring. The spines along her back are flexing with happiness. The stag, to its credit, is unmoving – not the paralyzed fear of a prey animal, but like a sunning lion that is letting its child play with its tail.

She has never behaved like this before. Hannibal smiles, and turns his attention back to Will, as though there might be some physical mark on the man that would create in him such an interesting daemon.

"Mischa," he says. "You mustn't forget your manners."

She huffs, blinking her golden eyes at him, but untangles from the stag and curls up next to it instead, purring finely, her fire stone glowing bright in her chest. She lays on her side, wings pulled up flat to her flanks, exposing her belly. Were Hannibal in any other company, anyone who knew and understood dragon posturing, he would be more perturbed at the evocative display.

But Will's cheeks are pink, and he ducks his head when Hannibal looks at him again. So very interesting.

"Doctor Lecter, can you account for your whereabouts last Saturday night?"

"Of course," Hannibal says, smiling. "I was hosting a dinner party. There were at least a dozen people who can confirm."

"I'll need their names."

"Naturally," Hannibal says, and goes to his desk to start writing them out. "I do hope they will prove fruitful witnesses."

"Thank you, Doctor Lecter," Jack says, taking the list of names.

"Please, feel free to call on me should you need any advice on dragons," Hannibal says, gesturing for the door. He follows as Jack and Will go to it, holding his hand out behind Will's back. Will turns, sucking in a breath like he hadn't realized how close Hannibal had been, and tenses like he's fighting the urge to flinch away. "I will be more than happy to assist."

"Thank you," Jack replies shortly. "Have a good day."

He leaves, and Will doesn't. He looks hesitant, and Hannibal meets his eyes, smiling.

Will swallows, sucking in a breath. "You're in the way," he murmurs.

Hannibal blinks, and turns to see that the stag is standing behind him, eyes dark and patient, head lowered in deference like his master. "My apologies," Hannibal says, and steps to one side to allow the animal to pass.

Will manages a tight smile. "I'm sorry about Jack," he murmurs. "If he had a daemon, it'd be a bulldog. Or a grizzly bear."

Hannibal laughs. "It's no trouble, Will," he replies. "Have a good day."

Will swallows, and nods. "Bye," he says, and rushes down the hallway and towards the street. The stag follows with measured steps, and Hannibal closes the door.

He turns and regards Mischa with a raised eyebrow. "Well, at least you didn't try to eat him," he says mildly, returning to his desk.

Mischa purrs. "I like that man," she says. "The little one with the pretty eyes."

"Yes, you made that perfectly clear," Hannibal replies.

Mischa laughs, rolling onto her stomach, and then jumps up onto Hannibal's oversized couch, curling up so that only her tail rests on the floor. She rests her head on the back of the couch and regards Hannibal with a heavy-lidded gaze.

Hannibal sighs. "Did you ask a man to bring you a heart?" he asks her.

Mischa blinks at him, smoke coming from her flared nostrils as she huffs. "No one can hear me but you," she replies. "But I remember a man calling for me. I was going to eat him, but he smelled bad."

"You must curb your bloodlust, darling," Hannibal says. "And only eat what I feed you."

"I know," she replies, blinking again. "I'm hungry, brolis," she adds.

Hannibal smiles. _Brolis_ – 'Brother'. "We shall go hunting tonight," he replies, and his smile widens when he hears her pleased purr. "The winter storms should have broken over Virginia. We will fly South."

"Excellent."

 

 

"I don't like him," Will says as he climbs into Jack's car, slamming the door shut. The stag comes to a stop outside of the door and Will rolls the window down, holding out his hand.

The stag places its muzzle in his palm, blinking, and then starts to change. Between one blink and the next Will is holding a small field mouse in his hand, and he sighs, shifting his weight and letting the little black animal crawl into his coat pocket.

Jack hums. "Because his dragon got a little friendly?" he asks.

Will glares at the side of his face. "He reeks of arrogance," Will snaps, sitting back in his seat and doing his seat belt, careful not to crush the mouse. "Of pride. Just like the rest of his kind."

"Now, Will, your prejudice surprises me," Jack says mildly, as they pull away from the psychiatric office and towards the main road. Then, Jack sighs. "What kind of _feeling_ did you get from him?"

Will sighs, carefully schooling his expression. "Just because he has a dragon doesn't mean he's a killer," Will replies reluctantly. "And I'll admit, the beast seems docile enough."

"Dragons are not docile," Jack says. "The only non-threatening dragon is a dead one."

"Now who's being prejudiced?" Will smiles.

Jack huffs. "If there is another murder, I want you to be there to read the scene," he says. Will nods. "If your beast changes, I suppose that will give us our answer."

Will nods. Most people's daemons do not change their shape – if they are too large to maneuver normal society, they are left standing outside or at the person's home. Even as they drive back to the BSU, Will sees a herd of horses standing at a water trough in the parking lot of a Wendy's.

But most people's sight, their souls, do not change so radically when they practice empathy.

"I know it might not matter," he says quietly, turning to look at Jack again, "but I ask that you do not get him involved more than necessary."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

Will swallows, looking ahead, then down at his lap. The mouse has crawled out and sits in his folded hands and Will smiles, brushing his thumb over the animal's head, between its soft, delicate ears. "I've never seen the mindset of a dragon," he murmurs. "The possibility of doing so is…uncomfortable."

Jack doesn't reply right away. They drive back to the BSU in silence, and Will opens the door and his daemon changes shape into a brindle-colored mutt, sitting at Will's feet as he gets out and Jack circles the car.

Jack regards him for a long time, before he presses his lips together and nods. "I understand your concern," he says, and Will nods. "But."

Will sighs. "There's always a 'but'."

"If working with Doctor Lecter, if capturing the mindset of a dragon and those that might worship them is what it takes to bring this cult down, then I'm afraid I cannot allow anything to stop that. Not even your comfort, or lack thereof."

Will smiles tightly, huffing a short, bitter laugh, and looks down at his feet. The dog licks his hand, woofing softly, and his fingers curl.

"Who knows?" Will offers, shrugging one shoulder. "Maybe he _is_ the leader of the Red Dragon Cult. Open, shut. Home by dinner."

Jack huffs. "Now, Will," he says, shaking his head. "When has it ever been that easy?"

"You never know, Jack," Will replies. "There's a first time for everything."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the wonderful feedback I've received so far! It really means a lot. I hope you like this next part :D

On the roof of Hannibal's home sits a greenhouse. It had been there when he moved in, in a sorry state at first, but Hannibal had expanded it and fixed it up to provide Mischa some shelter from any rain and still allow her the ability to soak up the sun during the day.

There are chains on the roof, but Hannibal only has them up there for appearance's sake. He would never chain Mischa or put her in any position where she might be in danger and unable to fly away.

He opens his eyes, rolling over in his bed as he hears the roof creak and settle in the way it does when she returns from flying. The clock on his nightstand tells him it's just past five in the morning, and he sighs, feeling her press up along the edge of his consciousness. "Good morning," he rumbles, his voice hoarse from sleep.

"Good morning, brolis," she replies warmly. Hannibal closes his eyes, able to see through hers as she prowls over to the greenhouse and walks inside, curling up in the space. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs, pushing himself to his feet. He rubs his hands over his face and goes to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash his face and hands. The air is cool compared to the heat of his bed, but he resists the urge to return to it. Mischa is hungry, he can feel it like a clench in his own gut. "Where did you go?"

"I visited the pretty man," she says.

Hannibal stops on the edge of his stairs, frowning down into the lower level. He looks up to the roof. "Why?" he asks.

"Because I wanted to," comes her pleased reply. Hannibal imagines her purring, her tail flicking at the tip like a contented cat. "He lives South, in the middle of a field. There is lots of space to fly and to run."

"You must be careful, darling," Hannibal warns her, recovering and walking down the stairs and to his kitchen. "You might give the wrong impression."

"What impression might that be?" she asks, and Hannibal can hear that she is genuinely curious. For all her cunning and all of her fine-tuned instinct, she is still comparatively young for her breed. Dragons are generationally bonded – were Hannibal ever to have children, upon his death, Mischa's care would pass to them, as would her bond, although it would never be at the level Mischa shared with Hannibal, or her original mistress. A dragon knows when it is close to death when the surviving generation cannot hear its voice in their head at all.

Hannibal often worries what would become of her when he died, as he has no children or family for her to go to.

Hannibal hums, going to his fridge and taking out a pair of lungs and a heart that he had harvested last week. He puts on his shoes and coat and carries the meat upstairs, towards the set of stairs that leads to his roof. The cold air washes over him forcibly as he steps outside, and he shivers, hurrying to the greenhouse. Inside of the building it is comparatively warm, heated by the fire stone in Mischa's chest.

She sits like a languishing cat, and raises her head, golden eyes blinking slowly in a calm greeting. She snakes her tongue out and Hannibal smiles, opening the packaging around the lungs and heart and setting them on the floor for her to consume.

She spears the heart with a claw, delicate and lady-like, and places it between her jaws, swallowing it whole. "I don't understand humans, sometimes," she says, long-suffering. Hannibal smiles, taking a seat in the only chair he has placed in the greenhouse. He folds his coat tightly around him and tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat, watching her eat.

"It's simply a delicate matter," Hannibal says. "You were very forward with Will's daemon yesterday."

She looks at him, baring her teeth in a smile.

"You've never behaved like that before."

She hums, tail flicking back and forth, her wings fanning the air in a display of nonchalance. "Do you remember the dragon rider we met in Italy?" she asks.

Hannibal blinks, nodding. "Gina and Lucia," he says.

"Do you remember how it felt to fly with them?"

Hannibal nods again.

"That is the feeling I got when I saw the little man and his beast," Mischa says, leaning down and nosing at the lungs before her muzzle parts delicately, curling her tongue around the organs and swallowing them whole. She rears her head back, working them down her gullet like a snake, and then huffs, a small puff of steam coming from her nostrils. "A…kinship."

"A kinship," Hannibal repeats.

"Didn't you feel it?"

"Unfortunately, my dear, human senses are not as sharp as yours. Other people do not bond in the way you and I do."

"But they could, couldn't they?" Mischa asks, blinking at him. "How do they mate, otherwise?"

Hannibal sighs. "They don't."

Mischa lets out a soft sound of displeasure, the frills around her horns ruffling and spreading out as though threatened. "I can feel your loneliness, brolis," she murmurs, fixing Hannibal with one golden eye. "Like it is mine. Are you going to be alone forever?"

"I couldn't possibly say," Hannibal replies, shifting his weight. "But I'm not alone. I have you."

She smiles at him, purring, and lifts her head to rest it in his lap. He pulls his hands out of his pockets to cup her cheeks, smoothing his fingers down her warm, fine scales, and pets over the golden patch of them between her eyes. "I love you very much, Mischa," he murmurs.

She purrs again, raising one wing to nudge the knot against his leg. "And I, you," she replies warmly, soft in his mind.

Hannibal smiles, and bends down to kiss her forehead, his smile widening when she gives a rumble of pleasure. "Then I have everything I need."

 

 

Will's phone rings, shrill and jarring, and he lurches to his feet, breathing hard. He's drenched in cold sweat, the sheets and mattress soaked with it – again. He runs his hands down his face, trying to shake off the dreams that had plagued him during the night. Fire, blood, golden eyes, the roar of a great beast and the shadow of death's wings.

He grabs his phone and sits on his mattress, answering the call without looking. "Hello?"

"Will, it's Jack," Jack's voice answers, short and sharp. Will winces, rubbing at his forehead. His head is pounding.

Beside him, his daemon licks his hand, the dog's tail wagging once like it's trying to reassure him. "Jack, what's going on?" he says when Jack doesn't say anything else.

"There's been another murder," Jack says.

Will sits up straighter, wincing and rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "The Cult?"

"It appears so. I'll text you the address. Get here as soon as you can."

Will nods, hanging up. He pushes himself to unsteady feet and stumbles to his bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping inside without getting undressed first. The water comes out cold and he shivers, gritting his teeth. He pulls off his soaked t-shirt and underwear as the water starts to warm, throwing the clothing over the top of the shower rail. He washes quickly, no desire in him to keep Jack waiting.

He goes back out to his room when he's clean, dressing quickly. The dog hasn't moved, but gets up and follows him downstairs. He goes to his coffee machine and starts a fresh pot, opening his fridge and huffing at the sorry state of what's inside.

"Need to go shopping after," he tells the dog, who, predictably, doesn't answer. It never talks to him. Will has heard that some daemons can speak to their masters, that there's a silent link between the two of them, but Will has never heard his daemon's voice. When he was younger, a school therapist had warned him it was a symptom of dissociative identity disorder. Then, when he was older, a type of sociopathy.

Will has never minded. He imagines that if his daemon ever had something truly important to say, it would.

The coffee machine beeps at him and Will grabs the thermos he specifically bought so that it could hold the whole pot, pours the coffee in, and dons his shoes and coat. He opens the door for the dog and heads to his car, shivering as he slides into the cold vehicle and turns it on. The dog climbs into the car, over his lap and between the seats, settling in the back.

Will waits, sipping the scalding coffee while his pitiful heat vents tries to warm the car, and then he pulls out of his driveway and onto the main road.

He sighs, wiping a hand over his eyes, and reaches into the compartment between the front seats to grab a bottle of aspirin. He uncaps the bottle and swallows two pills, washing it down with coffee. "Why a stag?" he asks, raising his eyes to see his daemon regarding him in the rear-view mirror.

The dog's ears perk forward. It woofs, licking its jaws, and lays its head back down.

Will sighs. A dog is fairly common for a daemon amongst properly socialized people, and even with its ability to shapeshift, the dog is how it usually presents itself. As soon as Jack had pulled Will up outside of Hannibal Lecter's study, it had changed shape into the giant black stag. A form Will has never seen before.

"I'm sure I'll figure it out," he mutters, checking his phone to see a text from Jack giving him the address of a hotel on the North side of D.C. He sighs, pulling onto Route 7, and settles into the rush hour traffic. The cars move slowly, and Will swallows back his impatience. It's not like the murder is going anywhere.

 

 

Will pulls up outside of a Hyatt, grimacing when the bright flashing lights of police vehicles reflect off of the windows and make his head ache sharply. He takes a deep breath, cradling his coffee in both hands, and gets out of his car, leaving the door open just long enough for the dog to jump out and stand at his feet.

He walks past the police tape and medical examiners and spies Jack talking to Beverly. Beverly catches his eye when he approaches and gives him a tight smile, her falcon daemon taking wing from her shoulder and circling above them with a loud cry.

Jack turns, nodding to Will in greeting. "This way," he says, and Will nods, walking at Jack's side, Beverly on the other, as they duck under another line of police tape and into the building. Thankfully, the air is warmer inside, and Will sighs, flexing his fingers to try and work feeling back into them.

Jack gestures for them to turn towards the receptionist area, and Will freezes. He looks down at his feet, searching for his daemon, and instead meets the dark eyes of the giant black stag at his shoulder. The animal huffs at him, ears perked forward, and Will stifles a low growl.

"Will?"

"Did you call Doctor Lecter here?" Will hisses, forcing his eyes away from the stag and glaring at Jack.

Before Jack can answer, Will hears a cry of alarm from outside. He meets Jack's eyes, and turns and rushes outside with him, coming to a stop when he sees the shadow of a great winged animal passing over the people gathered. Beverly's falcon gives a shriek of alarm, diving down to her side and she catches it, cradling it in her arms.

Jack looks up, squinting, and Will looks back through the doors to see the stag, waiting patiently, its face upturned as though it can see the dragon through the walls.

The shadow passes over them again and then a bunch of the crew scatter with cries of alarm, and Will sees the black dragon dive down, landing heavily on the concrete, prancing a few steps before she comes to a halt.

Will recognizes her – of course he does. She is the only dragon he has seen in real life, and the only thing that turns his daemon into the stag so far. The gold on her head and in her eyes shines in the sunlight, the red and blue lights flash off her dark scales, making her look as though she is made of oil.

Will hears a car pull up and turns his head to see a black Bentley pull up and stop. He huffs when Hannibal gets out of the car, glaring at Jack again. "I can't believe you called him here," he mutters into his thermos, taking a long drink to try and warm his chest and curb his desire to spit acid.

Jack hums. "Doctor Lecter!" he greets, giving the dragon a wide berth as she sits on her hind legs, tail curled around her, so she is taking up as little room as possible. Will catches her eye and she bares her teeth at him, spines on her tail flexing in a gesture Will doesn't understand. "Thank you for joining us."

"It's my pleasure, Agent Crawford," Hannibal replies cordially, clasping Jack's hand in both of his own as they shake. "Will," he adds, when they approach Will and Beverly. "Good to see you again."

"Surprised you drove," Will says archly. "Would have made a bigger impression."

Hannibal smiles, like Will's bitterness amuses him, and Jack gives him a warning look, before he leads the way inside. "The bodies were found at nine in the morning by one of the maids. Time of death puts it around midnight last night. The security cameras were fed into a loop and the desk clerk claims no one came in or out past ten at night."

"That would indicate our killer is a guest, would it not?" Hannibal asks.

Will hums. "Or they left through another door," he says. "Or the roof."

Hannibal pauses, and Will turns to see him looking at the stag. The stag, to its credit, merely regards Hannibal coolly, apparently neither happy nor put off by his presence. Will shakes his head and follows Jack down towards the hotel room and hears the measured hoof beats of the stag as it follows them.

The scent of old blood is one he knows well, but he still winces and covers his mouth with a hand as he approaches the doorway. He can see two huge bloodstains inside and sucks in a deep breath through his mouth.

"Clear the room!" Jack commands, and Brian and Jimmy walk out, giving Will a nod of greeting. They pause when they see Hannibal and the stag, but don't ask any questions.

Will clears his throat, hands Jack his thermos, and walks in. The room is relatively plain – a queen-sized bed pressed up against the far wall, room enough for a nightstand between it and the window. There is a door leading to a bathroom on the opposite side of the window, and a television mounted on the wall by his head for people to watch from bed. He presses his lips together and lifts his chin, sniffing the air.

"Was this a smoking room?" he asks.

Jack hums. "No," he replies. "None on this floor are for smokers."

"Then why does it smell like ash?"

Will turns to look at Jack, who shrugs. Will lifts his hand and points to the stag. "Let him in, please," he says, and Jack nods, stepping back. Hannibal follows suit, his eyes on the stag as it passes through the doorway, turning its head one way, then the other, to make room for its horns.

The stag walks in, barely able to fit, and Will closes his eyes. He moves them back, forth, clearing the room. The stains on the floor are gone. He sees the bodies, kneeling at the end of the bed, their backs flayed open and stretched to resemble wings. Then they disappear, taking their place in their bed instead. They are curled together intimately – lovers. Husband and wife.

He tilts his head to one side and opens his eyes. He steps between the bodies and eyes the man's left hand. It's missing his wedding ring.

He circles the woman and finds the same. "Dragons covet gold," he whispers. "This is…sacrificial. Ascension."

Their hands are clasped in prayer, their faces downturned in worship. Will clears his throat and looks to Jack. "I need a plastic sheet," he says.

Jack nods, calling Brian to bring one. Brian does, and Will takes it as well as a pair of gloves with a nod of thanks. He opens it and spreads it out over the bed, before he sits down. He pulls the latex gloves on and sighs, looking between the two victims.

Not victims, though. He raises his eyes, meets those of his stag. The animal regards him calmly, breath misting in the warm air like it's no warmer in the room than it is outside.

"Why did I pick you?" Will asks, frowning as he stares at his daemon. The stag blinks, ears cocked forward. Will ducks his head and looks to the woman. He cups her face and clenches his jaw. "You offered yourselves to me, like so many others have, but you were special. You both were special."

The stag blinks, huffing, and turns its head towards the bathroom. Will follows its gaze, frowning, and he stands and goes to the bathroom. He turns on the light, and gasps.

"…Jack," he calls weakly.

In the bathtub are two Komodo dragon daemons. Their bellies have been slit open, their eyes black and cold. Will trembles, his breath catching in his lungs at the sight of the creatures so cruelly gutted, and he falls back against the sink, rubbing his hand over his mouth and smearing the woman's blood over his cheek.

He flinches when he realizes what he's done, tearing off the gloves and throwing them to one side. A shadow appears at the door and Will raises his eyes to meet Hannibal's.

Hannibal's eyes are on the daemons, his face a strange mask of sorrow. "How cruel," he murmurs.

"These animals were cut open from the front," Will says, straightening. "But their masters had their backs skinned. Done while they were alive, I imagine. It's…it's the reptiles. It's because they were lizards, they were close enough to serve as an offering."

"An offering?" Jack repeats, raising an eyebrow. "To who? For what?"

"I don't know," Will says weakly. He shoves himself to his feet and pushes past Hannibal. The stag hasn't moved, but it turns its head and Will throws himself against his daemon's shoulder, tucking his shoulder under the animal's neck and digging his nails into the thick pelt.

"Hey, Jack?"

Will pulls back, wiping at his face, to see Beverly standing in the doorway. She gives him a concerned look and Will turns his face away as Hannibal and Jack come back from the bathroom.

"You might wanna see this," Beverly says, and hands Jack her phone. "Cyber just sent it to me."

Jack frowns, taking her phone and turning it to one side to see the picture wide-view. "Will," he says, and hands it to Will.

Will swallows, taking the phone and looking at the photo. He gasps. It's the hotel room – the blood is slicker and redder, fresh and falling. There is no light coming from outside of the window in the photograph, the only light being that of the lamp on the bedside table and shining from within the bathroom.

Painted in blood, above the headboard, are the words 'The Red Dragon Will Rise Again'.

Will trembles, clutching the phone tightly so he doesn't drop it, and hands it to Beverly.

Behind him, the stag bellows loudly and Will flinches, darting out of the way as it lowers its horns like it intends to skewer the bodies where they kneel. "Get him outside!" Jack hisses, grabbing Will's arm and hauling him out of the room and down the corridor.

The stag follows, compelled to go where Will goes. Will feels like he's going to be sick, his head is pounding, and his skin feels too hot. When he closes his eyes, he sees fire.

They leave the building and immediately the cold rushes over Will's face. He drops to his hands and knees, breathing hard. Beside him, he sees Jack's shoes come into view. "What the Hell, Will?" Jack demands, and Will wants to speak but he can't, he's definitely going to be sick.

Then, something changes. Like a new scent on the air. Will breathes it in deeply, closing his eyes, and trembles when he feels something warm and soothing settle across his mind. He looks up and sees that the stag is standing a little way off, dark hair even more black with sweat, nostrils flared as it breathes heavily.

Hannibal is standing at its side, his hand on the stag's shoulder. Hannibal turns to look at Will and Will flinches, lowering his eyes. In his head, he hears something that sounds like a giant beast purring in his ear.

"Will." Jack kneels down, forcing Will upright, and Will shivers but obeys, blinking blearily as Jack's face swims into view. Jack presses his lips together and thrusts Will's thermos into his hands and Will curls his fingers around it, shivering with cold. "What did you see in there?"

"…Fire," Will rasps, swallowing harshly. "Ascension." He clears his throat and tries to swallow past the feeling of smoke in his lungs. His eyes raise, seeing that Hannibal's dragon is prowling close to his stag. He shivers when their muzzles touch and sees Hannibal's fingers clench in the stag's pelt.

"An ascension?" Jack repeats, drawing Will's attention back to him.

"This Cult is growing bolder, Jack," Will says, feeling the omen deep in his chest. "First projecting their murders, then going public with them. They're ready. They've left their message."

"'The Red Dragon Will Rise Again'," Jack murmurs, and Will feels a cold shiver run down his spine, something unnamable and evil sitting in his head that he can't explain. "What does that mean?"

Will shakes his head, bitterness returning with his strength. He pushes himself to his feet and Jack follows suit. "Perhaps your new friend will know," he mutters darkly, and takes a drink of his coffee.

Jack hums, making a show of ignoring Will's harsh tone, and turns his attention to Hannibal. "Doctor Lecter!" he calls, and Hannibal turns, letting go of Will's stag – finally – and approaching them with a tense smile. "Do you know of anything significant about the Red Dragon?"

Hannibal blinks. Will watches as his face changes, sharpening around the eyes. Hannibal's gaze flashes to Mischa, and the dragon blinks at them, her tail swishing forward to curl around the stag's foreleg. "The Red Dragon," he repeats, and then looks back at Jack. He shakes his head. "No," he replies. "Dragons have only been documented as metal-colored, or black. Nothing about a red dragon comes to mind."

Will frowns.

Hannibal goes tense, and turns. Will follows his gaze to see the stag and the dragon standing closer. The stag's forehead is touching Mischa's golden scales, his antlers framing her head and the top of her neck, their muzzles pressed tight together. It looks gentle, and intimate. Will shifts his weight and clears his throat.

"I think you should go," Will murmurs.

Hannibal nods, checking his watch. "Yes. Unfortunately, I am needed elsewhere," he says. Then, he pauses, and regards Jack. "I have friends in Europe, other dragon masters like myself. I will see if any of them have heard of such a tale."

"Thank you, Doctor Lecter," Jack replies.

Will waits until Hannibal is in his car, and his dragon fans her wings out, unlocking herself from the stag's horns. She blinks at Will, baring her teeth, and then takes to the air with a huge gust of wind that threatens to bowl Will and Jack over.

"He's lying," Will growls when he's sure Mischa is out of earshot.

Jack regards him with a raised eyebrow.

"Those words weren't there when we got here, Jack," Will adds, turning to regard him. "That means someone came in and cleaned them off. They could have cleaned the whole crime scene, but they didn't."

"Perhaps they were interrupted," Jack says.

"Or they ran out of time." Will lifts his eyes to the sky, pressing his lips together. The stag huffs, and walks over to him, turning back into the brindle mutt between one step and the next.

"He might be lying about knowing what the Red Dragon means," Jack says. "But do you think he's our Cult leader?"

Will meets Jack's eyes, finding the man watching his face with the same kind of shrewd callousness with which he examines bodies. He sighs. "I get the feeling I know how this conversation ends, one way or the other."

"His dragon likes you, Will," Jack says. "It shouldn't be hard to become friendly with him and gain his trust."

"I would have figured the honeypot was beneath you, Agent Crawford," Will says dully.

Jack blinks at him. "I'm not…" He clears his throat and shakes his head. "Not that far, Will. If you can overcome your pride for more than five minutes at a time, you might be able to get him to share information with you. One slip is all we need."

Will swallows, pressing his lips together. Jack is using that tone of voice again when he's not really asking for a favor, but giving an order. He sighs, looking down at his dog. The animal woofs at him, tail wagging wildly. Like it likes the idea.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Figured you'd like the idea of being _social_."


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal lifts his head as he hears Mischa growl, the roof of his bedroom vibrating and creaking as she shifts her weight. Mischa took time and care to learn the scents, faces, and cars of their neighbors, so that she can warn Hannibal of anything out of the ordinary going on outside that might take him by surprise. She is very protective of Hannibal's house and guards it like a dog at the gate.

"Brolis," she calls, her aggression shifting to surprise rather abruptly. "The pretty man is here."

Hannibal blinks, frowning and closing his book, pushing himself to his feet and out of bed. "You're quite sure?" he asks.

Mischa hums, and through her eyes Hannibal sees a silver Volvo pulling into a parking space. Hannibal sees a flash of Will's face, and in the backseat, his daemon is the form of a brindle-patterned dog. Mischa's gaze shifts, she lifts her head and crawls to the edge of the roof, resting her head on one of the slanting pieces above the top story window.

Will's car lights die, and Will gets out, allowing his dog to follow. Mischa gives a rumble of greeting and Will pauses, his eyes flashing upwards to meet hers. As soon as their eyes lock, Will's dog barks, tail wagging, and when Will crosses the road, the dog changes shape and the stag follows.

Hannibal hums, coming back to his own eyes, and quickly undresses from his sleep clothes. The hour is late and Will's visit entirely unprompted. As he's sliding on a pair of suit pants, the doorbell rings. Hannibal sighs and pulls a sweater over his head in lieu of the normal button-down and waistcoat.

He goes to the door and opens it, revealing Will. There's a bottle of wine in his hands. "Good evening, Will," he says, making sure the surprise shows in his voice. "To what do I owe this impromptu visit?"

"I'm sorry it's so late," Will says. He looks down, shifting his weight. Hannibal is sure he can feel Mischa's eyes on him. "I had a late lecture today. I would have called first. Jack gave me your address. I wanted to…make amends."

Hannibal frowns, tilting his head to one side. The air is chilly, and he sees Will shiver. "Please, come in," he says, and steps back to allow Will inside. The hallway is too narrow for the stag, so it remains outside, regal and still in the darkness. "If you'd like, your daemon may go around the side of the house and into the backyard."

"Thank you," Will says, sounding surprised. The stag's ears go forward and Will nods to it, and it bucks its head and turns, walking out towards the side path and around to the back of the house. The ceiling creeks as Mischa follows it. "Here." Will hands him the bottle of wine.

"Thank you," Hannibal replies, taking it. It's a modest choice, but the wine is sweet and a dark red. "Shall we drink it now?"

"If you'd like," Will murmurs, shrugging off his coat. Hannibal smiles and leads the way to the kitchen, where the patio doors afford a view of the stag, and Mischa as she drops down from the roof to greet it.

"I'll admit, I feel some confusion," Hannibal says, fishing out a bottle opener and digging the screw into the cork. He twists it and pulls it out, lifting the cork to his nose. "What amends do you feel need to be made?"

"For my behavior," Will replies. He looks so out of place within Hannibal's house, his hair fluffy and windswept, cheeks pink. Out of place, but no less fine. Hannibal can hear Mischa purring in his head; she is delighted by Will's presence. "I have treated you with distrust and animosity when you have earned neither."

"I'm used to it," Hannibal says lightly. He takes out two wine glasses and pours them each a large amount, handing Will his glass. Will takes it with another tight smile. "People either regard dragons with awe or fear. Usually the latter, except those who have one themselves."

"You say it's fear," Will murmurs, taking a sip of his wine. "A civilian owning a dragon is like owning a tank. It's…uncommon."

"The use of dragons in war is exclusively American," Hannibal says coolly. He lifts the wine to his nose, breathing in the sweet bouquet, before taking his own drink. He was right; it's very sweet and leaves a pleasant aftertaste, though thick. A good pairing for mint and lemongrass. "In other parts of the world they are no more out of place than daemons."

"But they are not like daemons," Will says. "Are they?"

Hannibal smiles. "No," he replies with a shake of his head. He looks out towards the back garden, where the stag has laid down, apparently at ease, and Mischa has followed suit, the both of them staring at each other while Mischa's delicate tail fins tickle under the stag's chin. "They are not. They hatch in response to the touch of their chosen person, and form an imprint-like bond upon doing so."

"How fortunate for America that so many soldiers prove worthy of dragons," Will says dryly.

Hannibal laughs, pleasantly startled at the comment. "Shall we?" he asks, and gestures towards the door to the dining room. Will nods, following Hannibal into the next room. Hannibal takes a seat at the head of the table and Will sits to his left.

Will sighs, absently drumming his fingers on the tabletop as his eyes take in the room; the stag horns adoring Hannibal's fireplace, the painting of _Leda and the Swan_ forming a centerpiece. The room is dark and intimately lit, like golden firelight.

"Have you studied dragons much?" Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head. "I've never had reason to," he replies. "Just what I find myself curious about."

"What strikes your curiosity about them?"

"I suppose the differences," Will murmurs. His eyes flash to Hannibal's, then away. "As you said, they are not like daemons. They have wills, and agencies of their own."

"That they do," Hannibal says with a nod, taking another drink of wine. "And that…troubles you?"

"My job is to understand how people think," Will says, spinning his glass around to watch the wine caress the edges of the glass. "Their true natures are revealed to me through their actions, and those of their daemons. A dragon gives me little insight, but not only that, it poses the threat of contradictory desires."

"I disagree," Hannibal says lightly. "Mischa's and my desires have always been in alignment."

Will huffs a small laugh. "So she has always wanted to be a healer?" he says, meeting Hannibal's gaze for another brief moment.

"She has a kindness unrivaled," Hannibal replies. "There is so much darkness in the world; when Jack came to interview me the first time, she was intrigued by the possibility of catching this cult leader you're hunting. She wants to help."

"Does her master share that wish?" Will asks, his tone sharp.

Hannibal smiles. "Of course," he replies smoothly. "If only to see those who would ruin the name of dragon riders brought to justice." He pauses, and Will swallows. "The crime scene at the hotel affected you deeply."

"I don't like seeing daemons killed," Will says.

"More so than human beings?"

"They are one and the same," Will continues, shifting his weight. "But I looked at that scene and I knew the lizards had died first. Kill the human, kill the daemon, but their blood had been spilled before their masters drew their last breath. Killing the daemon will break the person. Like gutting their soul."

"I'll confess I do not feel that connection," Hannibal says.

"Not even to Mischa?"

"When I die, Mischa will live on, just as I would live on without her," Hannibal murmurs, looking down at his wine. He swallows and takes another drink of it. "Our bond is not filling a void, but rather extending a bridge between two minds. Both of us would survive if that connection was severed."

Will lets out a shaky breath. "I couldn't imagine," he says darkly.

"From what I understand, daemons are not there from birth," Hannibal says, and Will lifts his head. "They manifest as the child does, until their final form is achieved at puberty."

Will nods.

"I find it strange, to have your character decided so young. But yours changes," Hannibal adds. "It brings to mind a question as to whether you are still evolving."

Will frowns. "Evolving," he repeats. "Not broken?"

"Why would such a noteworthy thing be viewed as an error?" Hannibal asks, tilting his head to one side. "Your gift is remarkable, Will. Pure empathy. I have never seen anything like it."

"It has its purpose," Will murmurs, swallowing harshly. His hands curl around the stem of the wine glass and he takes another drink. "A double-edged sword."

"I imagine it's difficult," Hannibal says. "Knowing that your innermost thoughts are at the whim of those killers you hunt. You see something, and it changes part of your soul, for all to see." Will's eyes flash and Hannibal watches as his jaw clenches. He smiles. "What you see touches you and affects you like it would no other."

"I build forts," Will replies tightly. "Associations come quickly, but so do they."

"Why would you try and keep such a thing hidden?" Hannibal asks.

Will smiles tightly. "Call it self-preservation," he replies.

Hannibal smiles. "Do I threaten you, Will?"

"You open your mouth and I hear Jack's words come out," Will says. "Did he ask you to profile me?"

"If I recall, you are the one who paid me a visit," Hannibal says smoothly. Will blinks, ducking his gaze, his jaw clenching again. "Observation is not something we can just turn off, Will – we are both men who practice the art of understanding what other people are thinking, and why."

"I don't care so much about the 'why'."

Hannibal smiles, humming into his next drink. "Is that so."

"Why did you lie about the Red Dragon?" Will asks abruptly, lifting his gaze once more. "I know you know something about it. Yet you told Jack you didn't."

Hannibal smiles. "Perhaps self-preservation is something we both share as well." Will frowns, and Hannibal sighs. "There is a legend," he begins. "The Red Dragon is a thing of fabled tales, heralding from the old East. It is said that the dragon contains the key to immortality."

"Immortality," Will repeats, his brow furrowed.

Hannibal nods. "A dragon's fire stone is a crown jewel to any who gaze upon it. It is the stone that allows them to breathe fire, and even when the dragon is dead, the stone is said to contain healing and magical properties. That of the Red Dragon is a prize beyond measure."

"What else does the legend say?" Will breathes.

"The Red Dragon was said to be slain by a great king. But, with its final breath, the dragon cursed its own stone, so that all who touched it or tried to use it for their gain would suffer at its hands. Only when the dragon was resurrected, would the man who did it be greatly rewarded." Hannibal huffs a small laugh. "That is, if you believe the story."

"Do you think this cult might believe?" Will asks.

"It wouldn't be the first time a small group took it upon themselves to change the course of the world," Hannibal replies mildly. "But I would not wish such a beast's return. It is said that the dragon's wings were large enough to cover the Roman Empire, and its breath would bring only destruction and ruin upon those it touched."

"Why didn't you tell Jack any of this?" Will asks, his eyes wide.

"What good would it have done?" Hannibal replies with a shrug. "It is only a legend."

"A legend people are killing to see fulfilled," Will says tightly. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I don't put much stock in such stories."

"Nor do I," Hannibal replies. "History and the beasts themselves show us that the largest dragon is the size of a bear. Even now, Mischa is far more the average size – large enough to bear a single man, or two if necessary, but no bigger. Whatever animal they evolved from, such things are long-since passed."

Will sighs, taking a long drink from his wine glass. "Is there anything more to this legend?" he asks. "Something I should look for?"

Hannibal smiles. "I don't think it was any accident that the daemons slain were reptilian," he replies. "You yourself said it was a mark of ascension. Perhaps there is some pattern there."

"The woman with her heart taken," Will says. "She was an offering to the dragon. One that the cult said was asked for by a beast fitting Mischa's description, except for the gender." His eyes flash to Hannibal's, dark and sharp. "You claim she had nothing to do with it?"

"A dragon's voice can only be heard by those it has bonded to," Hannibal replies. "Their master, and those their master loves. It is not possible that Mischa spoke to whoever killed the woman."

"You have lied to me before," Will says. "Why should I trust what you're saying now?"

"Yours and my goals are the same," Hannibal replies. "You want to catch this cult. So do I. How long do you think it will be before they turn their attention to Mischa for a sacrifice?"

Will scoffs. "They would never kill a dragon," he says.

"Kin calls to kin," Hannibal replies. "They entertain themselves with lizards and the like, but for the Red Dragon to fully rise, it is a dragon that must call for him."

Will frowns. His eyes go to the window at Hannibal's back, where the garden is shrouded in darkness. "You should have told Jack that," he says. "You might be their next target."

"I have considered the possibility," Hannibal replies mildly, taking another drink of wine. "But it is incredibly difficult to kill a dragon, and you cannot force it to do anything while its will is bonded to another. It requires great resource."

"They might have it," Will says. His eyes move from the window, to Hannibal's face, then down at his hands. "I don't know enough about them, about how they think, or what raising the Red Dragon might entail." He bites his lower lip. "It's a mindset that is foreign to me."

"Well, perhaps I can assist you there," Hannibal says. Will blinks at him. "Your previous behavior is a small slight, and easily forgiven. My pride, and that of Mischa's, is not so great as to reject the possibility of friendship. If a dragon's mindset is what you want to achieve, we would be more than happy to help in any way we can."

Will hums, swallowing tightly. "I'm not sure how that's possible," he replies slowly, like he's testing the words before giving them voice.

Hannibal smiles, and stands. "Through education comes understanding," he says. Will frowns at him. "Come outside with me."

Will bites his lower lip, and stands. Hannibal fetches his coat and hands it to him, and opens the patio door to step out into the cold. Will shivers, digging his hands into his pockets, and follows as Hannibal walks towards Mischa and the stag.

The stag has not moved, laying calmly in the grass. Hannibal smiles as Mischa lifts her head from where it was resting on the stag's back, her wing tucked under its neck and her tail wrapped almost protectively around its flank. "Hello, brolis," she greets warmly, her golden eyes glowing in the darkness.

Hannibal smiles, and turns to regard Will. "Please," he says, and holds a hand out to Will. Will bites his lip, his shoulders tensed, and steps forward so he is at Hannibal's side, within touching distance of Mischa's wing.

"My dear," Hannibal whispers to her across their bond, "will you allow his touch?"

Mischa purrs, the fins around her horns flexing, and she uncoils herself from around the stag. Hannibal feels Will tense beside him.

He looks to Will, and reaches out, gently curling his hand around Will's arm and pulling his hand free. He cups Will's hand with both of his own and guides it to rest on the knot of Mischa's wing. There is a single hook at this joint, to allow her to claw at cliffsides or grab for purchase when she wrestles large game. Will's fingers curl around it and he shivers, taking another step closer.

The light of Mischa's fire stone bathes Will's face like sunlight, and Will presses his lips together, flattening his hand on the webbing of her wing, sliding down. "You compared her to a war machine," Hannibal murmurs, stepping back to allow Will room. Mischa presses her wing into Will's hand, her tail curling at the end with pleasure. "And you were not wrong to do so. Every part of her is bred to conquer, and to kill."

"Just like man," Will breathes. His eyes are wide, and he takes another step forward, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder. His fingers curl and he lets out a shocked gasp. "She's warm."

"The fire in her chest warms her whole body," Hannibal says, his voice low.

"I didn't expect her to be so smooth," Will whispers, pulling his other hand from her wing and gently touching the strong muscles in her neck. Mischa purrs again, tongue snaking out, and pulls her wings back to allow Will closer.

"I believe it is a result of her gender," Hannibal says. "The males I have encountered have thicker scales, so that they are not wounded when bitten or clawed at."

Will shivers, biting his lower lip. He flattens both hands on her neck, runs one up to trace the fine spines that connect the webbing at the top of her neck and back. They soften completely along her back where a saddle would sit, and grow pointed again at the highest rise, between the edge of her wings. Will's face is a mask of awe, like he's looking at a brilliant jewel.

Mischa blinks at Will, turning her head, and Will steps back so that she has room, cupping her cheeks instead. Her purr grows louder, her eyes going half-lidded in joy, and she rests her forehead against Will's. Will's eyes do not close, but it looks like they want to, heavy and dark as he traces the ridge above her eyes, folds his fingers behind her jaw. He touches her like he would a lover, reverent, his fingers shaking.

Hannibal presses his lips together, able to feel each tendril of pleasure as Will touches Mischa, echoing through their bond. "She likes you," he says, and Will huffs a shaky laugh. His hands slide up, curling gently behind her frills, to her sleek black horns.

"I hardly think I am more than a plaything to her," he replies softly.

Mischa snorts, her laughter echoing in Hannibal's head, strong enough that he feels his own lungs seize with the urge to laugh as well. "Dragons enjoy trinkets, it is no secret," he says, and hears Mischa's offended huff in his head. "But those things merely extend to objects, and art. People that spark their interest are hard to come by."

Will sighs, petting over her cheeks one more time, before he takes a step back. The stag is standing now, breathing harshly like it has been running for a long time, its dark, intelligent eyes fixed on Mischa. "I will try to remain entertaining, then," he breathes, and rubs his hands together as though to savor the warmth of Mischa's touch.

He turns to Hannibal, sighing again. "I'm glad you have forgiven me for my attitude, before," he says, and Hannibal smiles and nods. "And I apologize for dropping by so late. You've given me a lot to think about."

"My door is always open to you, Will," Hannibal says, smiling. "Please do not hesitate to visit if you wish to. Even if I am not here, I'm sure Mischa would be delighted to see you."

"Thank you," Will says. He looks to the stag, which bows its head and starts back around the house, to the front. Will walks back to the door and Hannibal follows, the soft whoosh of Mischa taking wing to the roof echoing behind them as the door closes. "Your hospitality is appreciated, Doctor Lecter. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other soon."

"Good night, Will," Hannibal replies, smiling and seeing Will out. He waits until Will is in his car, the stag changing back to the dog as it climbs into his car, and Will gets in and drives away. Then, Hannibal goes to the roof, seeing Mischa sitting on the edge, watching him go.

She looks at him, baring her teeth in a smile. "Charming as ever, darling," Hannibal says, joining her at her side, one hand on her shoulder.

Her tail curls around his legs in an effort to keep him warm. "As were you," she replies with another purr. "Do you think he will visit me again?"

"I'm sure," Hannibal replies. "You have piqued his interest. Will is a curious man, and until that curiosity is satisfied, we are his humble servants."

She laughs, her claws curling in delight. "He called himself a plaything," she says. "Do you wish to play with him, brolis?"

"Perhaps," Hannibal replies mildly. She gives a knowing hum. He can never keep any secrets from her. "I will admit, this cult gives me pause," he adds. "I do not believe Will's or Jack's suspicions have strayed from us yet. We shall have to be careful."

"We will find them," she says archly. "And when we do, I shall have all their hearts in my teeth."

Hannibal smiles, and turns, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I know, darling," he says, and puts his eyes back on the road. "I will see it done."


	4. Chapter 4

Will stands in what he imagines was once a great Cathedral, a monument to a religion that has long-since faded. The floor is made of gold, contorted and churning under his feet like walking across sand. To either side of him, giant stone columns in an octagonal spiral of misaligned stone blocks stretch up high to be enveloped in darkness above him, as though the building has no roof and simply never ends until it meets the clouds.

He walks down the main aisle and stops when he gets to the end of it. There is an altar in front of him, barren, made of black stone with a river of gold running from it like a fountain, melting into the floor. The heat is unbearable, and Will is sweating, it drips off his face and runs down his neck thickly like he's been sprinting through a desert. His hair clings to his face and neck, his clothes are soaked around the collar, under his arms, between his thighs, at the small of his back.

He steps up to the altar and, driven by a compulsion he doesn't understand, places his hands into the pool of gold, cupping his hands over the exit to try and stopper the flow. The gold burns his hands, peeling flesh away and he shudders, but can't make his hands move. He watches as the gold encases his hands and then abruptly cools, sealing them there. The gold has gathered around his feet and he trembles, trying to shift his weight, to pull away, but the gold has solidified around his feet, and it starts to run up his ankles, encasing his calves, his knees, up to his thighs.

Will grits his teeth, his shoulders tensing as he tries to tear his hands away. One of his wrists snaps and he groans in pain, shuddering when he feels the joint pop, the tendons tearing from the force of him trying to separate his body from his trapped hands.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he goes still. The gold goes still, now that it has him in place, and he's quivering with fear, his heart pounding loud enough in his head that he almost doesn't hear the soft slide of a great beast uncurling.

He looks up. Behind the altar is a wall of stone, grey like the pillars, a single window reveals itself in the middle of a pointed arch and his lips part when light starts to shine through it. It is not a natural light like that of the sun, but pulses and glows in a familiar way.

Like a fire stone.

"Mischa?" he calls.

The beast rumbles, a low growl that shakes and cracks the gold around Will's feet. The room abruptly flips, not rotating but Will is suddenly not looking at the wall, at the light, but back the way he'd come. The floor of gold has gone still, but Will can see movement beneath it like staring through stained glass.

The shape writhes, grows form, largens until it is a giant shadow that takes up the entire space. Will watches, wide-eyed and trembling as the head of the beast turns, and opens one giant golden eye and pierces him with a look.

It's not Mischa.

The beast roars, and rears up from the gold like it's encased in liquid. It runs down the thing's scales, drips from its neck and face like the sweat coating Will's skin. It's a dragon, with wings that snap out and cover the darkness of the ceiling easily. The beast itself is the size of a building, its fire stone large enough for Will to see his entire reflection in it.

Its scales are the color of blood. The Great Red Dragon.

Will grits his teeth, trying to pull his hands free from the altar, but the gold doesn't budge. He yells as he feels the burned skin around his wrists give, allowing him the sheath he needs to pull his flesh from the gold. His hands are skinned, deep enough to show bone, bloody and useless as he finally frees his hands from the altar.

At the scent of his blood, the Red Dragon's nostrils flare, and it looks at him with piercing golden eyes.

The dragon blinks at him – a single motion like a lazy cat – and bares its teeth at Will. "Hello, little one," it says, the voice vaguely masculine. Will gasps, putting his head in his hands as he feels the mental pressure of the dragon's voice smothering his thoughts, like a heavy, wet blanket has wrapped around his mind. It's overpowering and strong and Will imagines this is how it feels to be waterboarded.

"Who are you?" he manages to grit out behind clenched teeth.

The dragon laughs, soft and menacing. It curls up on the golden floor like a cat about to pounce, its large tail coiling around one of the pillars, long enough to thoroughly encase it. Its head stretches forward, and Will can't move, his legs are still trapped in the gold, and he lifts his head as the dragon's muzzle stops a few feet from his face. The dragon's head is large enough that, if he were to open his jaws, Will could walk right in and be devoured.

"To know my name is to know me," the dragon says, and Will hisses, his bloodied and weak hands clenching at his temples. His head feels like it's about to explode, too small and weak to contain the dragon's voice. "Do you want to know me, little one?"

"I don't know," Will stutters in reply. "I don't think so."

The dragon laughs again. "Then why are you seeking me out?"

"Not you," Will replies. He lowers his hands and lifts his head when the dragon tilts his, fixing Will with one of his giant eyes. The slit of his pupil is wide, overtaking most of the gold. It's a void like the night ceiling above Will's head. Will could easily lose himself in it.

The Red Dragon smiles. The heat coming off of him is sweltering, like breathing in the air of a humid jungle. Will's head is spinning.

"Are you coming?" Will whispers, unable to tear his eyes away from the dragon's dark gaze. In it, he can see time and nothingness stretching out, expanding beyond centuries, beyond life. This is what it's like to stare into the void of space and see no light, nothing blinking back at you.

The dragon hums, arching his large, regal head. His horns are the color of alabaster, mirrored in the lighter scales on his neck and belly, around his fire stone. The spines on his tail are made of gold – not the color, Will is sure of that, but the metal itself.

"I suppose that's up to you."

Will looks down at his hands. The flesh still clinging to his bones is burned and charred, and he can smell his own burning flesh in his nose. His lungs ache like he's inhaling ash. "I will stop you," he says. "I will stop the men doing this."

The dragon smiles, baring large fangs that are wet with blood and black. Will doesn't know what the black is. "That will take a lot of strength, little one," the dragon purrs, his tail flexing and his wings fanning the air in something like pleasure. "Do you have the strength of a dragon?"

Will shakes his head.

"You are just one man," the dragon says.

"And you are proud," Will replies. "Arrogant."

"Yes," the dragon whispers, coiling around Will's mind again, tightening, _tightening_. "What follows will change the course of humanity. Tell me, little one, what would you do to protect your own kind?"

"Whatever I must," Will growls, lifting his eyes to meet the dragon's again.

The dragon regards him for a long moment, until the heat starts to get unbearable again. It had broken at the flutter of the dragon's wings, allowing Will a breath of fresh air, but now his lungs are caked with ash once more and it's getting harder to breathe.

"Self-preservation is a trait of all creatures," the dragon says.

Will frowns, and then trembles when the gold around his legs turns liquid again, not quite burning, but warm, and starts to melt away so that he can move. He shies back from the altar, and the dragon rears up, slamming its front legs on each side of Will so Will cannot escape.

"Touch my stone," the dragon says. "Heal your hands."

Will's fingers curl and he takes a step back, and then another, until his back hits the stone wall. "No," he replies.

"You do not wish to heal?" the dragon asks.

"I don't want anything from you," Will says. "I want to owe you nothing."

The dragon laughs. One of its large hands curls, and lifts, and Will can't shy back any further. He trembles when one of the dragon's large claws curls under his chin, forcing him to lift his gaze. The dragon's black-gold eye swallows him whole once again when the dragon turns his head to regard Will.

"You need to know me," the dragon says. "Otherwise, how will you catch me?"

Will shakes his head. He wants to turn away, but he can feel the edge of the dragon's claw, sitting tight to his neck. It will slit his throat if he moves the wrong way. "You're not real," he says.

The dragon smiles. "You called for another before I came here," he says. "Mischa?"

"Don't touch her," Will snarls, baring his teeth.

The dragon answers in kind, revealing its wickedly curved fangs. "You're fun, little one," he says, and lowers his head. His tongue snakes out between his teeth and Will flinches when he feels it slick across his face. "I look forward to playing with you."

The dragon licks his face again and Will brings his hands up, trying to fight the touch away. The dragon laughs, and then its voice turns into a whine. The dragon's voice abruptly snaps from Will's head as it licks his face again, and then Will smells sweat, and humid air.

He surges away and his dog daemon rears back, tail wagging wildly. It barks at him and Will wipes at his face, feeling saliva there from the dog's mouth. He grimaces, and wipes his hands over his sweat-stained brow, down his cheeks. His hands are whole, no longer burned and skinned, and he shudders, sitting up and curling his head towards his knees.

"Just a dream," he whispers. But an incredibly vivid one – a stronger vision than he's had in a while. His daemon jumps up onto his bed, flattening itself along Will's thigh, and Will's hand falls to its thick fur at the scruff, clenching tightly.

He frowns, and lifts his head. He looks at the fur between his fingers – the brindle pattern looks the same. But it feels different. He shivers, biting his lower lip, and uses his other hand to pull the fur apart to look at the dog's flesh underneath.

He sees a flash of red scales, and recoils, his eyes wide. The dog looks at him and Will sees a flicker of golden eyes, before it's gone, and a dreadful feeling of certainty coils up in his chest.

"No," he whispers. The dog whines at him, head low, like it's apologizing for the presence of scales beneath its fur. Will's hands are shaking, he can't get them under control, and his breathing is coming heavy and strong, uncontrolled, uncoordinated. It feels like a panic attack but worse, something deep and icy sitting in his stomach and coiling like the Red Dragon's tail around the pillars of stone.

He jerks when his cell phone rings, and reaches over, hardly managing to answer the call. It's Jack. "Yes?"

"There's been another murder," Jack says darkly. "Get here as soon as you can."

"Jack, I -." But Jack has already hung up. Will closes his eyes and throws his phone away, too weak to give it the violence he wants to. He wraps his hair in his hands, tugging on it to try and center and calm himself down.

"Just a dream," he tells himself, but he knows that's not quite true. He sought the mindset of a dragon and now it's coming to him, his brain throwing out certainties and theories into a terrible amalgamation of truths that he cannot ignore. So utterly consuming that even his daemon started to change.

He rubs his palms over his eyes and sucks in a breath through his teeth, fighting to get a hold of himself. The crime scene will wait, but Jack won't. Will has to get up and get out of the house without delay. He hears his phone chime with a text from Jack with the crime scene location, and that noise eventually spurs him to get out of bed and into the shower.

Once he's clean and dressed, he pours himself another potful of coffee into his thermos and heads outside, his dog at his heels.

 

 

Will hates that he feels relief when he pulls up to the crime scene and sees the red and blue flashing lights reflect off of Mischa's scales. Hannibal is standing with Jack, his hands in his pockets but close to his dragon so that she can fight back some of the cold. The sun is glaringly bright overhead and it makes Will's head hurt.

He swallows two more aspirin and opens the car door, getting out. As soon as his dog touches the pavement, it turns into the giant black stag again. Will feels Mischa's and Hannibal's eyes find them at the same time, and the dragon gives a happy chirp of greeting, wings fanning the air and her tail uncurling from around Hannibal's ankles, drawn out to the stag in something like invitation.

Hannibal smiles warmly at him and Will tries his best to answer, but he's not feeling any better from when he woke up this morning and he thinks he might actually be sick at this crime scene, depending on how gruesome it is.

"Good morning, Will," Hannibal greets brightly.

"Hey," Will replies, taking a long drink from his thermos. At this point he's no longer surprised when Mischa rumbles towards his stag, uncoiling from Hannibal's side and prowling over to the daemon so that she can greet him. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Come on," Jack says gruffly, folding away his notebook and leading the way towards the crime scene. They're in a park this time, and are heading towards the children's playground. Will's stomach clenches. "We've already identified the victim. Her name is Tracy Bolton, thirty-seven. Single, no children. She's a defense attorney that works out of D.C."

"Long way from home," Will notes, frowning.

Jack looks over his shoulder at Will, nodding, his lips pressed together.

"This is a very public setting, Jack," Will says. "And a high-profile victim. They're getting more daring, more confident."

"What was the time of death?" Hannibal asks.

"Put somewhere around six this morning. From her clothes, we figure she was going out for a morning jog."

"Wait, so suddenly they're taking their victims in the day?" Will asks, frowning. Hannibal gives a curious noise and Will looks to him. "Speaks to more confidence. If it's the same killer, he's emboldened by the fact that we haven't caught him yet."

"You think it's the same man?" Hannibal asks. "From what I understand, this Cult utilizes all of its members to perform these sacrifices. It could be a different person."

"Maybe," Will says, taking another drink. "I'll know more when I see it."

"This way," Jack says, opening the gate to the playground. Will's eyes rake over the forensic analysts and photographers gathered. Beverly's falcon daemon is sitting on the chain link fence, watching everything closely as her mistress takes photos of the dead body.

The crowd parts at Jack's command, and Will sucks in a breath. Tracy was blonde, pale. She's still dressed in running gear, a light pink sports bra covered by a blank tank top, black shorts with white edges, pink and white trainers. He presses his lips together and sets his thermos down by the fence before he gets closer.

She's kneeling in front of a small running pole, with slants on either side for children to walk up to and try and balance on. Will circles her and freezes when he sees that her hands are bound. They've been skinned up to her forearms, and her knees have been planted into a pool of what looks like gold, solidified now in the cold air.

"What's -." Will clears his throat. "What's the cause of death?" he asks.

Jack steps forward and tilts her head back. Will clenches his jaw when he sees that her eyes have been sewn open, forcing her to watch whatever it was she bore witness to. There's a single slash across her throat, from under one ear to the other, severing the artery.

He frowns, looking down at the ground, and around them. "There's no blood," he says. "Not even a drop. She wasn't killed here."

"There's a camera at each entrance to the park, I have security pulling the tapes," Jack replies.

Will nods. He bites his lower lip and swallows back the flicker of recognition he feels, seeing her like that. Encased in gold, hands skinned. The similarities to his own dream are damn near overwhelming. His heart feels like it's too hesitant to beat.

He flexes his fingers, takes a pair of gloves from Beverly, and knees down in front of Tracy. Jack lets go of her head and it falls forward again, not quite rigored enough to stay upright. "What did you see?" he whispers, cupping her chin and lifting her head again. The sewed thread around her eyelids is crude, looks like something opportunistic and not the work of someone familiar with the art of stitching someone up. The cuts on her wrist where she was skinned are similarly jagged – not hesitant, but unskilled. Not the same person who killed the couple in the hotel.

"Did she have a daemon?" he asks.

Jack shakes his head. "None registered."

Will frowns. "That doesn't make sense," he replies, looking at Jack over Tracy's shoulder. "This Cult is obsessed with reptilian and draconian presence. They wouldn't just kill someone for the sport of it."

Jack shrugs one shoulder, and Will turns back to the dead woman. He sighs, and closes his eyes. The golden light moves one way, then the next, clearing the scene. He opens his eyes again. He sees Tracy being carried, her dead body contorted and bound to the walking post. He looks down at her knees, wipes away the gold.

But, no, if they had poured it here, there would be splatter. Residue. Will frowns, kneeling closer, and catches a leaf by her knee. It has gold on it. Spray paint.

"Fool's gold," he whispers, and meets Tracy's blank, clouded eyes. "This was a test."

"A test?" Jack repeats, frowning.

"I bring her here so that people can see my work," Will breathes. Through Tracy's eyes, he imagines he can see the killer looking back at her. He reaches out and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, tilting his head to one side when he sees brown roots around the finer hairs at her temple. "She's not a natural blonde," he says.

"Is that relevant?" Hannibal murmurs, sounding genuinely curious.

"I took her for a reason," Will says with a nod. "But this is…" He swallows, straightening up but still on his knees. "If the last scene was ascension, this was initiation," he says. "Whoever brought her here was taught how to skin a body, but he's new at it. She was chosen because of her falsehood, a sacrifice to the dragon to try and tempt him closer."

"Fake gold will not draw a dragon," Hannibal says. "They can smell the difference."

"This isn't real," Will says, nodding to the gold around Tracy's knees. "And she was already dead when they brought her here. Why bind her?"

"To hold the pose?" Jack suggests.

"Maybe," Will replies, frowning again. "She was given a quick death. The other murder was sadistic – the killer broke the couple's souls first, killing their daemons, and then skinned them while they were still alive. This is merciful in comparison."

"Doesn't seem very merciful to me," Jack growls.

"He wanted her to bear witness," Will says, gently touching the stitches around her eyes. He turns around, looking behind him. There's a swing set and a small climbing frame, but not much else. He stands, and then tilts his head up.

"Doctor Lecter," he murmurs, and hears Hannibal make a noise of acknowledgement. "Is this one of the places Mischa might go flying?"

Hannibal pauses, and Will turns in time to see him nodding. "Yes," he replies. "Parks and wildlife reserves are permitted at night time, when there are no civilians around."

"You didn't think it prudent to mention that?" Jack asks, dark with suspicion.

"I assure you, Jack, if Mischa had seen anything she would have told me."

"Was she flying here last night?"

"No," Hannibal says curtly. "She and I ventured North of here."

"Can anyone confirm that?" Jack asks.

Hannibal presses his lips together and sighs through his nose. He gives a single, short shake of his head. "Forgive me, Doctor Lecter, but your dragon has turned up with a potential link to two crime scenes now."

"When did you and Mischa return home?" Will asks.

Hannibal's eyes flash to his. "Early this morning," he replies. "My neighbors can confirm that."

"That's too early to be placed here, Jack," Will says gently, meeting Jack's eyes. "Whether this was for an audience or not, they couldn't have been here to see it or have been present for her display if that's the case."

"I'll need to confirm with your neighbors, Doctor Lecter," Jack says, looking unconvinced, but resigned.

"Of course."

"Alright," Jack says, wiping a hand over his eyes. "So it's probably a different killer. Some kind of initiation rite into the Cult, you think?" Will nods. "I'll call you when I have the surveillance feeds. You're dismissed for now."

Will nods again, and goes back to the chain link fence to fetch his thermos. He stands, feeling Hannibal's warmth at his shoulder, and turns to see the man regarding him with concern. "You know, some people find invading personal space rude," he says blandly, taking a drink.

Hannibal smiles, but takes a small step back with a nod of acquiescence. "I wanted to thank you for defending Mischa and myself," he says.

"Don't make me regret it," Will replies darkly.

"I assure you, Will, she and I had nothing to do with this crime scene."

Will tilts his head to one side, before he sighs and looks away. "I believe you," he says. "But you've captured someone's attention. I think you and Mischa should go into protective custody, or at least allow a guard to be posted."

"I don't think there is much a man could do that a dragon could not," Hannibal replies mildly. Will hums, wincing and rubbing his head. Hannibal notices. "Are you alright?"

"Didn't sleep well," he mutters, and reaches into his pocket to take out the bottle of aspirin. He swallows two more and washes it down with coffee.

Hannibal regards him for a moment. "Do you often have bad dreams?"

"Didn't say it was a bad dream," Will says.

Hannibal smiles, soft and fond. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Hannibal nods, and Will looks up when he sees his stag trotting over the little rise between the playground and the parking lot. Mischa is walking next to it, one of her wings resting lightly on its back. Will shivers, feeling suddenly warm. "Your dragon shares your lack of regard for personal space."

"Dragons are just as much an animal as dogs or cats," Hannibal replies. "I cannot control who she takes a liking to."

"But you do nothing to dissuade her."

Hannibal pauses, and Will meets his eyes briefly. "Would you like me to?"

"A loaded question, Doctor Lecter."

"Only if it has a loaded answer."

Will huffs, his eyes on Mischa again. She really is a lovely beast. Will has never seen a dragon up close before her, but his memory of paintings and art of them depict them as violent, savage things, always with blood in their teeth and their claws buried in the meat of a carcass.

Then, he sighs. "I dreamed about the Red Dragon," he says.

Hannibal blinks at him, his brow furrowing. "In the legends," Will continues, "is the dragon ever named?"

"No," Hannibal replies, shaking his head.

"A dragon's name is powerful, isn't it?" Will asks. "It means something."

"Legends about dragons stem from the same lore as the Fey," Hannibal says. "Through that origin, the significance of names has always played a large role."

"And what does it mean, to know a dragon's name?"

Hannibal regards him for a moment. The stag and Mischa approach the fence and the stag puts its head over the edge, and Will reaches out to cup its face, a soft smile ghosting over his features when he looks into the animal's dark, intelligent eyes.

"Come have lunch with me," Hannibal says suddenly, and Will blinks, looking at him. "We are both on call until Jack comes back with the security videos, and the drive to your home is a long way."

Will frowns. "How do you know where I live?" he asks.

"It took you over an hour to get here," Hannibal says, smiling. Will swallows and looks away. "I think it would be good to talk about these dreams, Will."

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Doctor Lecter," Will mutters. "I get enough of that everywhere else."

"Please, Will, I thought you wanted to become friends."

Will huffs, managing a tight smile. That was the whole point of Jack's order, after all. "Alright," he says with a nod. "But my daemon won't fit in your car."

"He won't change?"

"Not around you."

Hannibal hums, pressing his lips together. "Perhaps, if you'll allow it, Mischa can carry him."

Mischa gives a happy chirp, her tail flexing and curling around her hind legs in something that feels like anticipation. Will tries to imagine her carrying the stag and he swallows at the absurdity of it. "No," he replies, shaking his head. "He can run."

Hannibal smiles, and Will can't fight the feeling when he meets Mischa's eyes, that she looks disappointed. "As you wish."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Will is a silent presence through most of the drive to Hannibal's house, his eyes out of the passenger window as Mischa flies high above them, circling lazily through the air currents up above. They lost sight of Will's stag a few turns back, but if Will is confident that the stag will figure out where they need to go, Hannibal isn't worried. He is unfamiliar with the precise connection between a person and their daemon, but he imagines there is some kind of psychic link between the two of them, so that they will always be able to find each other.

Besides, the stag knows where their destination is.

Hannibal takes Will to his house in Baltimore and leads the way inside, smiling when he hears the roof creak as Mischa lands and settles into place on the roof. Will looks up, his brow furrowed in something like concern.

"She stays up there?" he asks as Hannibal heads into his kitchen. He takes a seat at the bar stool at the kitchen island, placing his thermos on the counter next to his messenger bag. Hannibal nods, and fishes out a man's shoulder cut from the fridge, placing it on a cutting board next to the stove.

"There was a greenhouse on the roof when I first moved in," Hannibal explains. "I had it refurbished to accommodate her size. It ensures she gets enough sunlight during the day and can keep warm and dry during bad weather."

"I'm given to understand that the military set up similar barracks for the dragons," Will replies. "Like camps."

"Dragons are still reptiles," Hannibal says. "They require sunlight just like their kin."

Will gives a noncommittal hum, and Hannibal cuts through the shoulder at the center, creating a pocket on the inside. He takes out a pan, drizzles some oil in it, and places the meat in the center to sear it on the outside.

Then, he takes out an onion, a red bell pepper, salt, and chunks of mozzarella, and places the cheese in a bowl, and begins to slice and dice the onions and pepper. He moves the cutting board to the kitchen island, so he can face Will while he does it.

"This crime scene troubles you," he says when it seems Will is not eager to continue their conversation.

Will huffs, flattening his hands along the edge of the island. "I find it odd that Tracy didn't have a registered daemon," Will says.

"Isn't it common for lawyers to be so?" Hannibal asks. "Most employment and career pursuits that require something of a poker face don't lend themselves to that kind of tell."

"Not as common as you'd think," Will replies. "Simply that those that do go into that line of work tend to have non-personified animals. Snakes, fish, stuff like that. Something that people don't expressly attribute to emotion."

"So it's possible she might have a daemon that could not follow her around," Hannibal says mildly. "A fish, as you said."

"It would have still been registered," Will says, his brow furrowing. He looks deeply troubled by the idea; "Someone who would hide their daemon is strange. It betrays a paranoia I wouldn't see in a lawyer."

"So you don't think she's hiding its existence?"

Will shakes his head.

Hannibal rubs the back of his wrist along the corner of his eye, blinking back the reflexive tears that chopping the onions has brought. He pours them into a bowl and turns back to the meat, flipping it to the other side with a loud sizzling sound. "So this killer, if he is different than the one who murdered that couple in the hotel room, chose her for a reason. Why?"

Will makes a rough, aggravated sound, but doesn't answer.

"You called it merciful," Hannibal says. "Could be a sign of remorse. He didn't want to give her the feeling of a dead daemon, so he chose someone who could not understand that kind of pain."

He takes the steak off of the pan, laying it out on the cutting board, and replaces the contents of the pan with the onions, peppers, mozzarella, and salt. They begin to fry immediately, and he grabs a wooden spoon to stir them.

"What does lore say about dragons and sacrifices?" Will asks after a moment.

Hannibal presses his lips together, sighing. "The link between sacrifices and dragons is as old as the beasts themselves," he replies. "Dragons are said to have taken virgins from townspeople to devour. So, too, in religions where they have been attributed to God-like beings, have many cultures built altars to them and sacrificed young people in the hopes of appeasing the dragons."

"You talk about this kind of thing distantly," Will says.

Hannibal smiles, and looks briefly over his shoulder to meet Will's eyes. "Dragons are bound to people," he says. "It has always been this way. Dragons that kill without remorse or direction have only been seen to do so because their human possessed similar desires."

"And did the Great Red Dragon ever have a master?" Will asks.

Hannibal sighs. "Not in any stories I've heard," he replies, turning his attention back to the frying vegetables. He lowers the heat and goes to the steak, pulling at the edges and turning it inside out to reveal the dark red center where the meat is still uncooked. He drizzles olive oil on each side and rubs paprika and salt into the meat.

Will swallows, his eyes on Hannibal's hands as he works.

"Then how could he have hatched?"

Hannibal shrugs one shoulder. "There are a few theories," Hannibal replies. "One is that the Red Dragon was bound to a God, and hatched under that deity's rule. Another is that he did have a human, at some point, but killed his master so he could be free. A third is that, at one point, dragons were not bound to humans for their hatching, but that they evolved to be so, either bred that way by humans, or cursed."

Will frowns, biting his lower lip. "Cursed?"

"Before the Red Dragon's death, before he cursed his fire stone, there has been no evidence that dragons were ever bound to humans," Hannibal explains. "One of the theories is that their bondage to humans was a result of that curse."

"So, with his return, one might hypothesize that all dragons would be free to hatch as they pleased," Will says darkly.

Hannibal pauses, his eyes on Will's face. "It's possible, I suppose," he replies coolly. "If you're starting to put stock in such things."

"It's important to know," Will says. "It would explain the motivations of this Cult."

"You think they want to free dragons from bondage?" Hannibal asks, unable to hide his surprise.

"Well, think about it," Will says, spreading his hands out in an open, helpless gesture. "If you didn't have a daemon or a dragon, if you operated the world knowing that who you are is who you will ever be, with no extensions or weaknesses, you might see the existence of bonded dragons and daemons as some form of slavery."

"Slavery," Hannibal repeats, frowning.

Will nods, biting his lower lip. Hannibal pulls the pan from the stove and pours the contents back into the bowl, setting it by the cutting board with the meat. He uses the same wooden spoon to scoop the contents, stuffing the inside of the steak with the mozzarella, onions, pepper, and salt.

"Religious motivations are hard to stop," Will whispers, his eyes on the food as Hannibal prepares it. Hannibal hums, and washes his hands. He then goes to his oven, preheating it for the meat to bake when he's done, and sets the empty bowl and the wooden spoon within the sink. "I don't think the man who killed Tracy had a daemon, though."

"Why is that?"

"If the desire to free dragons from perceived slavery is the motivation, then she didn't do anything wrong," Will says. "He killed her quickly, and all the other wounds were dealt post-mortem. He didn't see her as a captor or a slaver."

"So why choose her at all?"

"I don't know," Will says tiredly. He sits forward, rubbing his hands over his face. "I don't know."

Hannibal sighs, places the meat in a dish, and slides it into the oven, setting a timer for thirty minutes. He then pulls out a bottle of white wine from the fridge and opens it, pouring himself and Will a glass. He hands it to Will, who takes it with a grateful, tight smile.

He takes a sip, his smile turning a little softer at the sweet, crisp taste. Hannibal sets his glass down and opens a cabinet where he keeps the wines that don't need refrigerating, retrieves a bottle of red wine, and sets it on the counter.

Will raises an eyebrow. "Two-bottle day?" he teases.

"This will be for the sauce," Hannibal explains, and Will nods. "If you'd like, we can go to the dining room while we wait for the roast."

"I prefer it in here," Will replies, his eyes darting to the patio doors. Hannibal follows his gaze, and nods once. In the dining room, there are more places to leave, and much more light. He imagines it feels much less confined in here.

Hannibal regards Will for a long moment. He presses his lips together and takes another drink of wine. "Tell me about this dream of yours," he says.

Will's shoulders go tense, he bites his lower lip, and raises his eyes. "I was in a Cathedral," he says, and Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "A broken, barren one. There was no ceiling, only a wall at the back of the place. And pillars."

"Lofty heights," Hannibal murmurs. "A great unknown above you, barriers all around. Hiding places."

"The floor was liquid gold," Will adds. "I walked across it to an altar. There was light coming through the wall."

"A window?" Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head. "It glowed," Will replies. "Like a fire stone."

Hannibal nods, taking another sip of wine.

"The altar was pouring gold like a fountain," Will adds. "When I touched it, it burned me, and then closed around my legs so I couldn't move. I was trapped there, and then I heard the Dragon."

"Captured by greed," Hannibal notes.

Will shrugs one shoulder. "I didn't want to take the gold," he says. "Just touch it."

"Curiosity, then?"

"Maybe," Will replies. He rubs his hand across the back of his neck, wincing, and turns his eyes out to the back garden again. Hannibal follows his gaze when the roof creaks, and is pleased to see Will's stag standing in the grass, its eyes on the doors so that it can see them both. Mischa drops down next to it with a happy chirp, her wings fanning the air in greeting.

"Then what happened?" Hannibal asks.

"The room moved, like the altar was rotating so my back was to the wall. I saw the Dragon encased in gold, under the floor, and he reared up and broke his barriers. He smiled, and spoke to me." Will shivers, and Hannibal tilts his head to one side.

"What did he say?" he breathes.

"He called me 'Little one'," Will says, his voice tight and dark, his eyes lowered on Hannibal's hand around his wine glass. Hannibal feels a flicker of recognition at the title – it's strange; Mischa calls Will the 'little man', and now this Dragon is saying similar things to him in his dreams. Projection? "I asked him who he was, and he told me that to know his name was to know him. He asked me if I wanted to know him, and I told him 'No'."

"The Dragon spoke to you," Hannibal says. "He didn't attack?"

"No," Will replies, shaking his head. "I pulled my hands free from the gold, and it took my skin away so that there was nothing but muscle and bone. He offered me his fire stone, said that if I touched it, it would heal me. I refused."

"Why?" Hannibal asks, enthralled with Will's story.

"I told him I didn't want to owe him anything."

Hannibal smiles. "A contract with the Fey is binding," he says. Will's eyes flash up to meet his, and his brow furrows in a frown. "To owe them something is to sell them your humanity. You didn't wish to barter with the Dragon."

"He said that to catch him, I have to know him," Will says. He licks his lips. "You said a dragon's name is powerful, that it means something. If the Red Dragon is that old, is he bound by the same old laws?"

"I suppose it's possible," Hannibal replies. "Back in those days, a dragon's name was almost a secret contract between it and its master. A dragon rider, the human who is bound to it, is the first and potentially the only one to know its name."

"So knowing Mischa's name, for instance, that gives you power over her?"

"I would phrase it more like an understanding," Hannibal says. "Our names are given to us by our parents. Even if we change them, or are called something else by our friends or the Government, our birthname is the first one we ever know. Mischa told me her name and it became binding."

"Secrets and power," Will murmurs, rubbing his hand across his jaw, nails catching on his beard. He huffs. "Do you think it's possible that, if this Cult learned the Red Dragon's true name, they could summon him?"

"They would have to know it," Hannibal replies. He checks the timer on the oven and sees that ten minutes have passed. He takes out another pot, sets it on the still-hot stove, and pours the red wine into it, with a jar of thick plum jelly. He uses another spoon to stir it into a lumpy liquid, waiting for it to boil. "All old magic like that requires direction. For that, you need a name."

"So finding the Red Dragon's name is important to the Cult," Will says quietly. Hannibal nods. "We must find it first. Or find them before they figure it out."

Hannibal smiles, stirring the sauce again as it begins to bubble. He lowers the heat to a simmer and covers the pot, turning back to regard Will again. It makes his chest feel warm when he hears Will say 'We'. Clearly whatever animosity he had felt before is tempered by the knowledge that Hannibal would know far more about dragons and their enthusiasts than he does. "Where would you propose we begin?" he asks.

"I don't know," Will says, his tone turning frustrated. He sets his wine glass down, so he can run both hands through his hair, cupping his fingers around the back of his neck and lacing tightly. "Alright. So, I'm a Cult leader, obsessed with the desire to bring the Red Dragon back into the world," he says. "I guess I'd start with any lore I could about the beast. The more I know about him, the closer I would get to finding his true name."

Hannibal nods, smiling when Will meets his eyes. "I can guarantee you that there is nothing in the lore that mentions the Red Dragon's true name. I have studied it extensively."

Will's eyes flash, and he tilts his head to one side, straightening up. "Have you, now," he says.

Hannibal's smile widens. He turns the heat off of the pot and sets it to one side, so the sauce can thicken. "I've made it no secret that I have studied dragons as much as I am able," he says. "I consider it a staple of a dragon rider's knowledge. Just as a surgeon studies anatomy, or a profiler studies human behavior."

Will stifles a low growl, washing the sound down with another drink of wine. "Alright, then," he says crisply. Hannibal wonders if his sudden aggravation has anything to do with the fact that Mischa has taken advantage of the stag's relaxed behavior outside, and is grooming the thick fur at its neck delicately with her claws. Her tail is curled around the stag's forelegs, one wing stretched out over its rump. He smiles. "Why don't _you_ tell me what I should be searching for?"

Hannibal presses his lips together, resting against the kitchen countertop as he looks outside, monitoring Mischa as she purrs and rubs her muzzle against the stag's cheek. She's stopped grooming him now, and seems to be entertaining herself with kneading the stag's steadily rising flank, careful with her claws as she does it. His smile widens when he sees Will look outside as well, and Will's shoulders stiffen in discomfort, his cheeks turning pink.

Finally, he takes pity on Will, and speaks; "I would ask a dragon," he replies mildly.

Will blinks at him, tearing his eyes away from Mischa and the stag, and looking at Hannibal. Hannibal lets him watch for a moment, before he meets Will's gaze and Will drops his eyes almost immediately. "I can't hear her," he says. "How would she even know?"

"Dragons have a kind of superconscious," Hannibal says. "It's what allows them to sense when their bonded human is in their presence. What one of them knows, all of them stand a high chance of knowing as well. If any modern dragon has heard the name, Mischa may have heard it also, or she may be able to find out."

Will frowns. "If she knows, that means you'll know it as well," he says. Hannibal nods. "That would put you and her even more at risk, Doctor Lecter. If the Red Dragon Cult knew this…"

Hannibal smiles. "Your protectiveness, while endearing, is misplaced," he says kindly. Will's cheeks darken, and he ducks his head, biting his lower lip. "I do not fear this Cult."

"Every man has their limit," Will growls. "This Cult would do anything to get the name if they suspected you knew it." He cocks his head to one side and presses his lips together, his eyes narrowing. "What would it take to get a man like you to talk?"

"Implying I have something they can barter with," Hannibal replies coolly. "And that something would be worth the destruction of my race as the result."

"You have no family, no assets they could seize that would be worth that to you?" Will challenges, and Hannibal smiles, and shakes his head. "What if they had Mischa?"

"Mischa's voice is bound to me," Hannibal says. "She cannot speak to anyone except myself. She couldn't give the answer away even if she wanted to."

"But what if they threatened her master? Or herself?" Will asks. Hannibal pauses, and then sighs. He gets the impression that there's more than one reason Will is asking these questions. "What if they hurt her? Or killed her?"

"Then they'd best kill me, too," Hannibal says without inflection. "Not even God Himself could turn me to mercy should anything happen to her, while I still had breath to do something about it."

The corner of Will's mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but knows he shouldn't. "You don't strike me as a particularly violent man, Doctor Lecter," he says.

Hannibal smiles. "Perhaps the question you should be asking is not what would make me divulge the Red Dragon's name, but what I would do to anyone who tried."

Will does smile, then. He drums his nails along the stem of his wine glass, looking at the shining, transparent liquid. He hums, and takes a drink of it, gently turning the glass to watch the wine swirl around within it. "You already know his name," he says quietly. Not an accusation, but a statement of fact.

Hannibal smiles. "Do I?"

"Yes," Will replies, "otherwise your curiosity would compel you to help me find it. Instead you deflect, and turn the conversation around."

"Am I that obvious?"

"No," comes the reply. Will's eyes rise to his, then fall away, out of the patio doors to where Mischa has curled up tightly around the stag, covering its head from the rain that has just started. The stag is laying down completely on its side, as lax as any prey animal can make itself. "But your thoroughness wouldn't allow anything else." Then, he swallows. "If Mischa told you, then other dragon riders may know the name as well. I wouldn't put it past the Cult to try and infiltrate the military."

"I don't think any of these Cult members actually have dragons," Hannibal says. Will looks at him, and tilts his head to one side. "If they did, you wouldn't be playing catch-up so closely with them. Their entire endeavor reeks of appropriation. They walk into a culture they have no hope of understanding, which means none of them have dragons of their own. If they did, we would have already lost."

"You said they would need a dragon to summon him," Will says quietly. "Why, if this is the case, has he not been summoned before? If any dragon knows his name, then…"

Hannibal smiles. "Again, you forget that dragons are bound to their humans," he replies. "Through that bond, there is little desire to do harm." He pauses when Will lets out a derisive sound. "Not everyone is a monster, Will. Your perception of this life has been drastically skewed."

"Yeah, well, it happens in my line of work," Will says darkly.

The oven beeps, and Hannibal slides on his mitts with a sigh, turning and taking the roast out. It smells wonderful, if he does say so himself, and he turns and sets it on the counter. Will takes in an appreciative breath, letting it out with a sigh.

"Smells delicious," he says.

Hannibal smiles. "Go into the dining room, and I shall bring this out," he says. Will nods, and stands, taking his wine glass into the next room. Mischa looks up as Hannibal takes out plates and slices a thick cut of the roast for each of them. She uncurls from the stag and walks to the patio doors, and Hannibal opens one so that she can poke her head inside.

Her thoughts curl around his mind, warm and affectionate. "You seem troubled, brolis," she says.

"Not at all," he replies quietly, petting over the golden scales on her forehead. She purrs, tail curling, and closes her eyes.

"There's something happening," she tells him. "The little man's stag feels different today."

Hannibal frowns. "How so?"

"His teeth are sharp," she replies.

"He is deeply troubled," Hannibal says, walking away from her and filling his wine glass before he takes the pot of sauce and pours a hearty layer over each cut of meat. He sets the pot down and covers the rest with Clingfilm, sliding it into the fridge to keep, and returns the bottle of wine to the door. "He is dreaming about the Red Dragon."

Mischa hums, flicking her tongue out to taste the air. Hannibal smiles at her, and puts one plate on his forearm, holding the other so his other hand remains free for his wine.

"Go back outside," he says. "Keep the stag company."

"And you keep the little man company," she says, baring her teeth in a playful grin. She pulls her head back and Hannibal slides the door closed with his foot, and heads into the dining room to feed Will his lunch.

He knows that Will's daemon shapeshifts, but he cannot think of a single reason for Will's stag to have sharp teeth – and this is new, apparently, if Mischa's observations are to be believed. Of course, she has been much closer to the stag for longer than Hannibal has, and he trusts her to notice such differences.

He sets his wine glass down and then places Will's plate in front of him, deciding not to comment on it for the sake of Will's nerves. Will is sitting at his left hand, and Hannibal places his plate at the head of the table. He goes back into the kitchen for steak knives and forks and hands a set to Will when he returns.

"Thanks," Will says, his smile genuine but small. Hannibal returns it, and takes his seat, and watches as Will cuts his first bite and lifts it to his mouth. He takes the bite, eyes going heavy-lidded with pleasure at the taste. "Damn. This tastes amazing."

Hannibal smiles. "I'm pleased you like it," he says. "Culinary science has always been an indulgence of mine."

"I get most of my calories in liquid form," Will replies softly.

Hannibal huffs, though he suspected as much. "Well, should our friendship continue, I would see you well fed whenever you are here."

Will smiles, his cheeks turning pink again. Hannibal wonders what Mischa is doing with the stag now, and if Will can feel it, and if that's the reason the flush is returning to his cheeks. "I'd like that," he says after another quiet moment, then clears his throat when Hannibal looks at him. "For it to continue, I mean. Our friendship."

Hannibal smiles, pleasantly surprised at the warmth in his chest. He can hear Mischa purring in his head. "I'd like that, too."


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal sits in the greenhouse, absently petting over Mischa's delicate scales, a book in his other hand as she purrs and dozes with her head in his lap. Her thoughts are hazy and warm, dancing between dreams of flying through sun-drenched air and rolling around in grass, puppy-like and happy.

She sighs, one golden eye opening and blinking once. Hannibal closes his book and sets it down as she raises her head and licks his cheek. "Brolis," she says quietly, and Hannibal lets out a noise of acknowledgement. "There's something I wanted to ask you about."

"Yes?" Hannibal replies, pushing the thoughts to her mentally so that he doesn't have to speak. Being mentally bonded to a dragon runs the risk of people becoming non-verbal and lazy. Everyone who enrolls in the military goes through a kind of profiling course, emphasizing communication since it's too easy to become lost in one's dragon's head and forget to give orders, or listen to them.

She hesitates, shifting her weight so her forelegs fold in front of her like a cat, claws clicking together and curling. "You've never mated," she says.

Hannibal smiles. "No," he replies.

"But humans can mate."

He nods. "Yes, that is true," he replies. "They get married, or choose to spend the rest of their lives with another person. Or a group of people in a mutually beneficial relationship. Not everyone does, though."

She lets out a quiet rumble, laying her head down on his lap again. She sighs when he starts to pet over the golden scales on her forehead, scratching around the place where her scales stop and her horns jut from her head.

"What's that like?" she asks.

He smiles. "Are you asking me what it's like to be in love?" he replies.

"I suppose."

"I couldn't possibly say," he says lightly, cupping her jaw with his other hand and rubbing at the underside where the flesh is more spongey and smooth. Her purr gets louder and her tail curls around his legs, holding his ankles loosely. "The only love I have ever felt was for the woman who was your namesake."

She sighs. "I think it feels like warmth," she says after a moment. "Like hunger."

"With that line of thinking, one could argue you fall in love with everyone we consume," he replies.

She bares her teeth and flicks her tail against his legs in irritation. "You know what I mean," she snaps.

He smiles, gently rubbing his thumb over the ridge of the eye nearest him. "I do," he murmurs in reply. Then, he sighs. "I imagine it feels like a deep understanding, being in love. Knowing the other person, and knowing that that other person can see and understand you just as deeply."

She flicks her tongue out, humming. "Do you think there's anyone that could understand us, brolis?"

"I'll admit, I haven't tried," Hannibal says. "I find most of humanity to be lacking when it comes to the kind of connection I desire."

She is silent for a moment. Then, softly; "Most?"

He smiles. "Do not think you've been subtle," he says, and she huffs, a small puff of smoke curling from her nostrils. "I've seen how you interact with the stag. His master has noticed, too. I have never seen you behave this way."

"I like the little man," she replies curtly. "I would like to know him."

"That could be a dangerous endeavor, my dear," he says.

"Don't put all the blame on me," she says. "I've seen how you look at him, too."

"Curiosity, nothing more."

Her flanks heave in a gentle laugh, more smoke coming from between her bared teeth. "Sure," she replies smoothly, humor in her soft voice. Hannibal fights the urge to roll his eyes at her smug tone. "I think it would be interesting to be friends with the little man. He reeks of the same…curiosity."

"You're teasing me," Hannibal mutters, and tries to ignore the curl of warmth at her words. He's sure Will's regard for him swings wildly between outright defiance and tentative wariness at the best of times. Certainly no room in there for affection, or anything more than a casual friendship.

"You're easy to tease," she replies with another flick of her tongue. Then, she lifts her head, and fans her wings. "I'm going to go flying. Will you be alright by yourself?"

"I'm sure I'll manage," he replies, standing and brushing himself off. She winks at him, and slithers out of the greenhouse, into the cool, dark air. Her wings stretch out and beats once against the air, trying to test the wind.

"Good night, brolis," she says. "I'll be back soon."

"Be safe," Hannibal replies, as she takes to the air and circles away, unable to stop the small shred of worry he feels at watching her go. Despite his cavalier response, he knows Will is right; if the Cult wants to find and summon the Red Dragon, even without yet knowing his name, they will need a dragon for the sacrifice, and Mischa is by far the easiest target.

He sighs, picks up his book, and goes back inside, his mind whirring with plans as to how he might have to catch the Cult leader himself and do away with this threat before any more bodies start to pile up.

 

 

Will wakes from another nightmare in cold sweat, grabbing his gun from his bedside table and pointing it towards his feet, ready to pull the trigger and empty the magazine into the wall beyond him.

He gasps, his eyes focusing, the redness on the edges of his vision abruptly fading away. He lowers his gun, seeing no threat, and rubs a hand through his hair. His fingers are shaking, his heartbeat hammering so hard in his chest it feels like he's going to pass out.

He hears a rumble, like the snarl of a great beast, and sets his gun in his lap, fisting his hands in his hair. His head is killing him, a piercing pain sitting just behind his eyes, and he reaches blindly for his bottle of aspirin, hissing in frustration when his trembling fingers knock the bottle of the bedside table and it goes rolling.

He opens his eyes to try and locate it, and freezes when he sees it has rolled up to rest against the flank of his daemon.

His daemon has wings.

He recoils with a gasp, his back hitting the wall behind him. It still looks like a dog, although to call it a dog would be generous. Its muzzle has become malformed, teeth too large for its lips to close. Its eyes are golden, and jutting from its shoulders amidst the thick brindle fur are two large wings, like that of a bat.

Or a dragon.

The animal looks at him, horned and grinning, tail still mammalian and wagging when he meets its eyes. "No," Will snarls, and shoves himself to his hands and knees, crawling to the edge of his bed. His fingers fist in the sweat-soaked sheets and the animal lifts its head so that their noses are almost touching. "Change back."

The animal bares its teeth at him again, jaws parting, and barks. Will flinches at the sound of it, sitting back, and wipes a hand over his mouth.

"Please," he whispers. "Please change back."

The animal's golden eyes flash, and then turn to look out of his window. It barks again, tail wagging, and pushes itself to its feet. Will watches, wide-eyed, as it turns and sprints out of his house, wings catching on the edges of the doorframe hard enough to make the wood splinter.

Will shivers, bites his lower lip, and grabs the bottle of aspirin, downing two pills dry. He knows it's very late, and the moon isn't full, meaning there is little light outside. He pushes himself to his shaky legs, knees hardly able to lock, and goes downstairs to try and find his daemon.

The front door has been forced open, hanging loosely on broken hinges, and Will sucks in a breath, steels his nerves, and steps outside.

His daemon isn't a dog anymore, but a stag once again. The wings are gone, and Will cannot see the shine of sharp teeth or golden eyes. It has its head turned up to the sky, and Will steps out onto his porch in time to see a jut of stars obscured, hear a whoosh of wings, and then Mischa lands in the field in front of his home, her wings fanning the air and her familiar, delighted purr rumbling across the grass.

Will doesn't see Hannibal anywhere.

He frowns, goes back inside to don his shoes and his coat, and then leaves the house again, walking over to the dragon and the stag with steps as measured and easy as he can manage. His eyes dart to the road, trying to pick out the beam of oncoming headlights that would mean Hannibal is behind her, playing catch up, but after a while, none come.

"Mischa?" he whispers, certain for a moment that this might be another dream, that he never woke up at all. She winks at him, her tail curling cat-like around the stag's hindlegs and pulling it to her flank so she can cover its back with her wing. The stag lowers its head, so that the horns don't dig into her neck or face. Will trembles when he feels warmth covering his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

Then, something presses against the edge of his head. He winces, remembering the sharp violation of the Red Dragon in his dreams, and instinctively covers his ears as though it's a physical sound he can block out.

But it's not a physical sound. Even with his hands over his ears, he can hear Mischa's soft purr and the stag's heavy breaths. "Hello, little man."

Will grits his teeth. The voice is masculine – it's not hers. It speaks with Hannibal's accent, but it's too high to be his voice either. It's some weird bastardization of what Will imagines Mischa sounds like, and her master.

When he looks up, the stag's eyes are a flat, flicking gold, like the reflection of fire off a metal surface. His eyes widen, and he takes a step back and Mischa lifts her head, her tongue flicking out to taste the air.

"Do not be afraid."

Unbidden, a frantic laugh escapes his frozen lungs. Absently, recognition flickers in his brain of those same words used in Biblical texts. Fire and glory; perhaps Angels and dragons are closer related than people like to assume.

"I'm not afraid," he replies.

She bares her teeth in a smile. "No," she says, but it's not her voice – the softer, unidentifiable one. "I can tell."

"How can I hear you?" Will demands. "I shouldn't be able to hear you."

She blinks at him, a low rumble in her chest. Her fire stone is bright, glowing with a dull pulse in time to the slow beat of her heart. It's an orange-gold color, like the innards of a fire about to turn blue. She turns, and nudges the stag's head, and it lays down, completely at ease underneath her wing.

"I speak through him," she says.

And Will realizes; the voice he's hearing, it's his own, like he would sound if he was trying to mimic Hannibal's accent.

"He's never spoken to me before, either," he breathes.

"We are both creatures of silence," Mischa says. "Of solitude. But we don't have to be."

"I'm not sure that's up to you," Will says. He lowers his hands from his ears, knowing now that he can't stop hearing the voice in his head. It's not a physical voice he's hearing, but something deeper and much more direct.

She huffs a laugh, smoke curling from her flared nostrils. "Do I make you uncomfortable?" she asks, and the voice in his head is curious; intrigued. Polite. It's not a question of threat.

"Yes," Will replies, because he senses that he wouldn't be able to lie to her if he tried.

She hums. "Does he? Brolis?"

Will frowns. "Brolis?" he repeats.

"My brother," she explains. "That is what I call him."

"Hannibal?" he asks, and she nods, sitting on her haunches, one wing still extended over the stag. Her tail shifts, curling in the opposite direction to sit around her feet like a cat. "'Brolis' means brother?" She nods again. "Why do you call him that?"

She tilts her head to one side. "Because my original mistress was his sister," she says. "So he is my brother."

Will blinks, and tilts his head to one side. It's strange; he can feel Mischa's warmth against the stag like his own skin. He's not cold, despite the pervading chill in the air, but he shivers all the same at the light in her lovely golden eyes.

"So you didn't hatch for Doctor Lecter."

"No," Mischa says. "But my mistress died when I was still a youngling. He took me in and cared for me."

That explains why Hannibal feels so protective of her, and yet speaks of her distantly. Their bond is second-hand, like inheriting a pet from an elderly relative. A constant reminder of the loss shared by both of them.

And it explains why Mischa is female, and bonded to a male. It is the first case Will has heard of, and while he's no expert, he's certain that he was right in questioning why Hannibal's dragon is a female. Now it makes sense – she wasn't Hannibal's dragon, at first.

"Why did you come here?" he asks. "Does Doctor Lecter know you're here?"

"No," she says, the voice in his head turning playful and smug. She bares her teeth in a grin. "He would have told me not to come, if he did."

"But you did anyway," Will says.

"I like you," Mischa replies, fanning her wings. "I want to help."

He frowns. "Do you imagine that you can help?"

"Maybe," Mischa says, huffing another small cloud of smoke. "These people, who are killing, they are making it sound like it's something to do with me. Leaving sacrifices, if I understand correctly." Will nods. "Perhaps I can help."

"How?" Will asks.

Mischa smiles at him. "The woman whose heart was taken," she says. "I saw the man that did it."

Will blinks, shocked. He takes a step back before he can help himself. "Did you tell Doctor Lecter?" he asks.

"No," she replies gently. "I didn't think it was important."

"You didn't think being a witness to a crime with _your_ description was important?" Will demands.

She shifts her weight and lets out a small trill, fins around her horns rippling. The stag turns its head, resting its muzzle on her tail and she looks down at it, her wing tightening like she's hugging it closer. The stag's eyes are still golden.

"I've seen changes in your daemon, little man," she says quietly. Will swallows. "You're starting to think like a dragon, and your soul reflects it."

"What do you know of me and my _soul_?" he growls.

"I think I am one of the creatures best equipped to know something like that," she replies coolly. If she is offended by Will's behavior, she doesn't show it. The tone of Will's voice with her accent is still playful and happy. "You seek to understand. To empathize. Am I wrong?"

Will sighs, runs his hands through his hair, and shakes his head. "No," he replies reluctantly. "You're not wrong."

"It is a desire that Hannibal and I share," Mischa replies, and Will lifts his head. "We are curious creatures, the both of us. That curiosity takes a lot to sate."

She tilts her head to one side when Will doesn't answer. "Are you curious, little man?"

Will winces. "Please don't call me that."

She smiles. "Perhaps 'Draugas', then."

Will frowns. "What does that mean?" he asks.

"One of the translations means 'friend'," she replies with another smile.

Friend. That's acceptable. Will presses his lips together and nods.

She shifts her weight again, leaning down to lick over the stag's forehead. "I do not want you to be afraid of these changes, draugas," she says quietly, closing her eyes. "And I do want to help. So does brolis. We want to be your friend."

"What does it mean, to be friends with a dragon and their rider?" Will asks, hardly able to give volume to his voice, so it comes out as a whisper.

Mischa smiles. "I suppose that's up to you and my brother," she replies lightly. Then, she fans the air with her wings, kicking up a soft, cold breeze. Will shivers. "Brolis is good at sketching. I will tell him what the man looked like and have him give it to you."

"Thank you," Will replies.

She winks at him, and Will shivers again when the stag lifts its head, its eyes fading back to the normal blackness. With it, he feels the mental presence fade away, so he's left with his own thoughts and the vague mental connection to the stag. But there's no voice, either his, Hannibal's, or Mischa's. He can't help feeling strangely empty, no longer able to hear her.

The stag stands, walking away from her, and she flares her wings out, pushing herself to all fours. "Be safe, Mischa," Will tells her, and she smiles, leaning her head in to gently rest her muzzle against his forehead.

Then, she withdraws, and turns, kicking into the air with a powerful surge of her legs and wings. She flaps once, twice, wildly to catch the air currents, and wheels away towards the tree line on the other side of the road. It doesn't take long for her dark scales to blend completely with the night sky, and Will cannot see where she goes.

 

 

"There's been another murder."

"Of course there has."

"This one is different."

"How so?"

"Just get here."

Will growls, hanging up the phone call and wondering just how long he has to do this before Jack unclenches and starts to remember the basic politeness parameters of society. His daemon is a dog again, and looks up when Will comes downstairs, showered and dressed for the day.

"Good to see you're back to your old self," he tells it, and the dog huffs, resting its head down again.

He puts on his shoes and goes outside, the dog trotting behind him and climbing into the back seat of the car when Will opens the door for it. The address Jack sends him brings him to an abandoned lot in the West side of Baltimore. It's surrounded by warehouses and flat lots of concrete, all in various stages of vandalism and disrepair.

Jack is there, in conversation with Doctor Lecter. Will spies Mischa perched on top of the warehouse next door, and she chirps when Will's dog changes into the black stag, and she lifts her head and fans her wings in a gentle greeting. Will can't help but smile, and lift his hand to wave back at her.

Hannibal notices, but his expression doesn't change as Will approaches. There are no EMTs, no forensic analysts, no photographers. Will frowns and comes up when Jack turns to him.

"Where is everyone?" he asks.

Jack presses his lips together, and sighs. "Come this way," he says, and leads Will to the warehouse on which Mischa is perched. Will follows, already feeling a little uneasy, and Jack opens the door for them with a gloved hand, leading the way inside.

Will freezes when he gets inside.

He recognizes this place.

It doesn't look the exact same as his dream, of course. It's a warehouse, not a Cathedral, but he cannot help noticing the odd, octagonal curve of the pillars holding the roof up, see similarity in the single shaft of light coming from the other end of the structure. At the far end is a box, covered in a plain white sheet, like an altar. There's a body on it.

"Jack?" Will whispers, hesitant to step in.

"See anything familiar?" Jack says darkly.

Will frowns at him, and looks at the floor. The entire concrete floor has been spray-painted gold.

Jack has a piece of sketch paper in his hand, and holds it out to Will. Will doesn't recognize the man's face. He's young, plain-looking. Nothing discernible around him, but the sketch is incredibly detailed like it was copied from a photograph. "Doctor Lecter showed me this," he says. "He said his dragon saw the man who ate the woman's heart."

Will frowns, looking to Hannibal in question. Hannibal sighs, his hands held in front of him, fingers curled around his other wrist.

"What does this have to do with it?"

"That," Jack says, nodding to the sketch, "is our victim."

Will blinks, looking up towards the body. Even from here he can see the huge, stark pool of blood surrounding it. "They turned on one of their own?" he asks.

"Looks like," Jack replies.

"Who found the body?"

"An anonymous tip was called in. I'm having tech try and find the source as we speak." His eyes are on Hannibal. "That's three crime scenes now, Doctor Lecter."

"I cannot help it if Mischa doesn't feel the need to tell me every face she sees during her flights," Hannibal says calmly. Too calmly, in Will's opinion. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he shivers.

He hands Jack the paper, and walks carefully over the golden floor, towards the altar. His hands are shaking, and he curls his fingers, not wanting to see. But he has to see. He has to understand.

The man is laying face down, his head propped up with a curved piece of metal that sits under his jaw, forcing him to put his eyes on the window at the back of the warehouse. The other end of it is embedded in the altar, stabbed through the sheet. Will can't see much of it, but the metal piece is flat and shining. It looks almost like a sword.

"This is definitely him?" he asks, looking up as Hannibal and Jack walk behind him and come to a stop on the other side of the altar. "The man who took the woman's heart?"

Hannibal nods. "It's the face Mischa showed me," he replies. He looks troubled, although whether that's because Mischa didn't tell him sooner, or the more immediate connection of killer to victim, Will cannot say.

He feels warmth over his shoulders, and knows Mischa is outside with the stag, curled up together as she has done so often before.

He looks back at the man. He's naked, his skin parted on each side of his ribs and pulled up, rigored into the shape of wings about to take flight. There are no hooks or lines keeping his skin upright, but Will can see punctures on the edges of his flesh where he was held, before the killer removed them.

"This is like the hotel room," Will whispers, and Jack nods. "Do we have an I.D. yet?"

Jack shakes his head.

Will bends down, kneeling in front of the man's face. His mouth looks strange, his lips parted, and Will frowns. "Gloves?" he asks, and Jack hands him a pair. Will puts them on and kneels forward, peeling back his upper and lower lip to reveal sharp, false teeth placed over his normal ones. He sucks in a breath and smells ash, and pulls the man's tongue out to see that it's been burned down to a crisp. Done post-mortem, if he could guess. The rest of his mouth doesn't look harmed.

His hands are not bound, but hang on either side of him, flayed and peeled like the woman in the park. Will wonders if they'll find gold under his fingernails.

The blood on the sheet has turned dark brown from time. "What was the time of death?" he asks.

"Can't be sure until we have the M.E. come in," Jack replies. "But I'd guess last night. Same as the others."

"The others didn't have teeth like this," Will whispers. He stands, heaving a large breath. "And the gold on the floor – this took time. A lot of time."

"This part of the lot is virtually abandoned," Jack says. "No witnesses so far, no cameras. They had all the time in the world to do…whatever the Hell this is."

"Once we get an I.D., we need to find out if this man had a daemon," Will replies.

Hannibal lets out a soft noise, drawing Will's attention, and he shakes his head. "I don't think he did," he says, and Will tilts his head to one side. "Remember what we concluded; none of the members of this Cult could possibly have daemons, or dragons. It doesn't fit their profile or their cause."

"Their cause?" Jack repeats, frowning.

Will nods, and Hannibal turns to him. "We believe that the Cult, in resurrecting the Red Dragon, believes that with it will come a liberation of sorts," Hannibal says. "They see dragons and daemons as slaves. As a result, they would not join the Cult if they had either."

"Well, if that's the case, it narrows down our suspect pool significantly."

"Don't be so sure, Jack," Will says. "Hitler appeared as one of the very types of people he chose to slaughter."

"What is this?" Jack demands, frustrated and low. "What kind of sick game are these people playing?"

"Jack, I understand your frustration, but the answer may be a little more complicated than a game."

"And your dragon could have gotten us this I.D. days ago, Doctor Lecter."

"Jack," Will sighs, holding up a hand. "It's done now. But we have a body. If he's in the system, we'll find him."

"I have made Mischa promise that she will tell me if she sees anything else of note," Hannibal adds mildly. "But once this man is identified, it will bring us that much closer."

"He had surgery done," Will says, nodding to his mouth. "Made him more like a dragon. They're trying to get as close to a dragon as possible, to call on the Red Dragon."

Jack huffs, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I'll call the team over," he says. "The sooner we cut off the head of this snake, the better."

Will nods, and Jack turns, grabbing his cell phone and walking out of the warehouse to make the call. Will's fingers curl – he wants to touch. He wants to feel the dip in the man's spine where his wings spring from. But he shouldn't, until the scene has been processed.

He looks at Hannibal and finds the man's eyes on him, dark and assessing. "Did you tell him about my dream?" he asks.

Hannibal blinks, and shakes his head.

"This place looks like it," Will says, looking around. "The pillars. The light. The altar."

Hannibal makes a soft, considering sound. "Do you think it's possible that you are not the only person the Red Dragon is appearing to?"

"Well, since it's product of my own imagination, I can't say one way or the other."

"Will," Hannibal begins, circling the altar and placing a hand on Will's shoulder. Will fights the urge to flinch. "I know you want to catch the people doing this, but as your friend, I feel I would be remiss if I didn't warn you not to dive too deeply."

"Where were you last night, Doctor Lecter?" Will demands.

Hannibal blinks at him, and takes his hand away. "I was home."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. "Can anyone confirm that?"

"No one aside from Mischa, I'm afraid."

Will's mouth twitches. He wonders if Mischa told Hannibal where she was last night as well. He wonders if that window of opportunity was large enough for Hannibal to do this himself. If Mischa lied to Will, and told Hannibal exactly who this man was before she left, and gave him enough time to hunt down and slaughter the man that posed as a threat.

Hannibal sighs, and turns so that he and Will are standing like sentries in front of the altar, their postures mimicked, sentinels to the dawning of a new age.

"What do you see, Will?" he asks.

Will presses his lips together and sighs through his nose. "I see honor," he replies. "Love."

"Love?" Hannibal repeats.

Will nods. "The kind that causes wars."

He doesn't turn his head to see Hannibal's expression, but he hears, in his head, Mischa purring, and his chest feels warm and tight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're starting to get to the meat of it now :D

Wings. Teeth. Clawed and flayed hands. What does it _mean_?

Will rolls onto his side in his bed, his breathing heavy and uneven, deep in the throes of another nightmare. Sweat cakes his skin, plasters his sheets to his bared thighs and the undersides of his arms. He trembles when he hears the rumble of a great beast.

"I know you're there," he says. He's in a dark room, there is only one light coming from somewhere far away. He runs to it, desperate to get his hands on it. The light promises heat, life, redemption. It promises freedom, and by the time he reaches it, his hands are shivering and curled with cold, his knuckles frozen.

He touches the light, and it brightens, grows edges that are sharp and defined. Will gasps when the room abruptly explodes into brilliant light, and he can't pull his hands away as the wings of the Great Red Dragon wrap around him, pulling him close.

The dragon rumbles, and Will looks up to see one golden eye staring at him like the gaze of God. "Hello, little one," he says, and Will flinches. He wants to tear his hands away from the fire stone he's touching, but he can't. His skin is stuck, peeling, seared there like burnt meat to a grill. "Are you afraid?"

"Yes," Will replies, because he is afraid. He's terrified, and the dragon will know if he's lying.

The dragon smiles, his teeth shining in the light of his firestone. He unfurls his wings and Will gasps, ducking his head against the sudden onslaught of cold air on his face. He feels grass beneath his feet, his toes curling in the cold ground.

"I don't want you to be afraid," the dragon says. "Our destinies are entwined."

"I will stop you," Will growls. Since he cannot retreat, he tightens his hands and tries to pull at the fire stone, intent on ripping it out from the dragon's chest. The dragon huffs a laugh, smoke billowing around Will's shoulders as he parts his jaws, revealing the fire in his throat.

"The die has already been cast, little one," the dragon replies. He lets out a soft rumble, that sounds like it's meant to be soothing, but all it does is make Will's heart stutter in fear and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "It was a good fight. You're a worthy opponent, but you've already lost."

"How?" Will demands, teeth bared.

The dragon smiles, and lowers his head so that his eye is level with Will's. His slitted iris is large like a hunting cat's, and Will can see his entire reflection within it. "You'll see," he replies.

The dragon's wings withdraw, and his light starts to dim. "Wait – no!" Will cries, trying to clutch at his fire stone. At his back, the cold sweeps in like nightfall, fast and overpowering like a physical weight. It drives him to his knees and the dragon's laugh fills his head. "I'm going to find you," he growls. "I swear to God, if it's the last thing I do -."

"Do not speak to me of gods," the dragon says coldly. "I devour gods like you devour men."

Will surges awake so suddenly that his stomach turns, and he just manages to get to the edge of his mattress before he empties out the meagre and mostly-liquid contents of his stomach with a slick spattering sound. He groans, wiping his hand through his sweaty hair, and then over his face. The scent of vomit stings his nose and he winces, flopping onto his back again and staring up at the ceiling.

He hears a soft woof, and turns his head to see his daemon approaching the pool of vomit. He winces when it starts to lick at the floor.

"That," he tells it, "is disgusting."

The daemon's ears twitch, but it doesn't stop. Will is honestly just relieved to see no hints of wings and golden eyes. He sighs and closes his eyes, listens to the slick lapping noises of the dog as it cleans up his mess. When he closes his eyes, he sees darkness – and there, in the distance, that same far-off light.

He sighs and opens his eyes once again, and the dragon's purr fills his ears.

"You like her, don't you?" Will says to the dog. It doesn't answer, just as it never has. He turns his head. Most of the pool is gone, just a wet shine of saliva on the floor now, the dog's tail wagging. "Go on. You can tell me."

Silence meets him.

He sighs, and then his phone starts buzzing. He rolls over and reaches for it blindly, answering the call when he sees Jack's name on the screen. "Yeah?"

"The man from last night, in the warehouse, his name is Randall Tier," Jack tells him. Straight to the point as always. Will rolls onto his back, wincing when his body meets the cold pool of sweat that runs from nape of his neck to the backs of his knees. He tries to find the energy to get up, but it eludes him for now.

"Should I know that name?" he asks.

"Randall Tier was a patient of Doctor Lecter's, years ago," Jack says. Will blinks, bites his lower lip, and frowns. He lifts his head and sees that his daemon hasn't moved, is still licking at the floor. "The more I look the more I see his hands in all of this."

"I don't think he's the leader of the Cult, Jack," Will says. "This leader doesn't have a dragon. Doctor Lecter suggested it and I agree with him. If they had a dragon, they'd have fulfilled their objective a lot sooner, probably before we were even onto them."

"I'm having tech dig into Tier's life, figure out where he went, look into his friends. He probably knows the leader."

"I agree," Will says. "So why are you calling me?"

Jack pauses, and then he sighs heavily. Will closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair again. "The Cult posted another message on a dark site," he says. "I believe they're going to target Lecter's dragon next."

Will sits up, abruptly enough that his stomach aches sharply. His throat is sore, stinging, his mouth dry. "What makes you think that?"

"They described her again. The dragon. Said that it was time to resurrect their master."

Will frowns. "I need to read the message," he says. "Word for word."

"Come to the office and I'll get it to you," Jack replies. Will sighs – he would much rather stay in the safety and solitude of his home, but he knows that's exactly why Jack always asks him to come. Maybe he should move to Baltimore, to lessen the commute.

He discards the idea immediately. There's not enough space there. To run, or to fly.

His daemon jumps up on the bed and shifts into the shape of a little black fox, curling up in Will's lap. Will smiles, stroking over its soft fur, scratching behind its ears. "Alright," he says. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Will," Jack says, before Will can hang up. "If the dragon is a target now, I'll have to insist Doctor Lecter be put into protective custody. He'll probably refuse."

"I know he will," Will replies.

"Then it's your job to change his mind."

Will frowns. "Jack –." He stops, swallows, clears his throat. "I don't know if I can do that."

"Try," Jack replies, and hangs up. Will huffs, and looks down at the fox in his lap. It meets his eyes, and flicks its tail, cat-like, and rolls over to expose its belly to Will's hand.

"Shut up," he tells it, and it grins at him and gives a soft yip. He sighs, and pushes it off of his lap, struggling to his feet.

 

 

He showers, fills his thermos, and gets in his car to drive to Baltimore after his daemon climbs into the backseat, a dog again. As he drives, his thoughts are at once static and in brilliant sound, flickering in front of his eyes. Colors woven between the grey in flashes of red and black.

Hannibal Lecter is not the Cult leader – Will is almost certain of it. But if he is their next target, then Will must do everything he can to protect him, and Mischa.

A dragon's life force is not dependent on their master's. A dragon can die, and the human can, and either of them will survive it. Not like with daemons, although people can live if their daemon dies. They're never the same, though.

Mischa's original mistress is dead. She died when the dragon was young, but was close enough through their familial ties to bond to Hannibal, and now she's managed to speak to Will as well, through his daemon. Will doesn't know the significance of that – Hannibal said dragons can only be heard by their masters and those their master is closely bonded to, and Will is neither.

But she managed. Because of Will's empathy, of his ability to get into the head of a dragon or their master, so much that his daemon emulated one? Will isn't sure, and he doesn't want to think too hard about it.

Dragons seem predisposed to pet names and terms of endearment. 'Little one', 'little man', 'draugas', 'brolis'. Perhaps it's something leftover from their old times, where names had more meaning than just a way to identify people, one from another. Will doesn't really know what to make of that, either, and wonders if she refers to everyone Hannibal meets with similar names.

Will hopes that uncovering Randall's past will shed some light on who the Cult leader might be. In his head, the Red Dragon is growing stronger. He lured Will to the light without having to try; threatened him with cold darkness so that he sought haven in his wings like a child in their mother's arms. He wonders if Mischa has dreams about him too.

He gets to the BSU and parks, hurrying inside. Jack is waiting for him and greets Will with a single nod. When Will sits, he hands him a piece of paper that looks like a screenshot from the dark site.

Will frowns, and squints at the tiny white lettering on the black background. "Our time has come," he reads. "We will cover the Earth with blood and fire, and the Great Red Dragon will emerge from those flames in triumph."

Will stops, looks at Jack, and Jack shakes his head, sighing.

Will clears his throat and puts a hand on his daemon's head, curling tightly in its thick scruff. He hopes it doesn't change in front of Jack.

"She will be the vessel through which our master returns," he continues. "The black dragon with a crown of gold, she calls me to her arms. Through her, the Great Red Dragon will find his life and his love, and she will birth the greatest wonder the world has ever seen."

He swallows, sits back, and sets the paper down. "No time," Jack says. "No location. Just the dragon."

Will nods. He can taste Jack's frustration, feels it like the bristle of static at the base of his neck. "Doctor Lecter told me that, in order to bring the dragon back, a sacrifice has to be made," he says. "But he also said they'd need the Red Dragon's name. It's important."

"Why?" Jack asks, frowning.

Will shrugs. "Old magic, I guess," he replies. He scratches at the nape of his neck and hisses. His neck is tender, stings under his nails, but it itches, like there's something stuck under it. His other hand tightens on the scruff of his daemon's neck and he feels his nails drag along skin that feels like scales. "But he said there's nothing that mentions the Red Dragon's name in the lore. No one knows it."

Jack huffs. "So, in theory, they can't do anything to them without knowing his name."

"In theory," Will replies. He frowns down at the piece of paper and scratches his neck again.

"What is it?"

"Something…about this feels weird," he says quietly, thoughtfully. Jack is the kind of man to jump on the first piece of information, too impatient to sort through the weeds. Will has to choose his words carefully.  "The way it's written, it goes from a group collective – 'Our master', 'Our time', but then abruptly changes to the singular – 'She calls me to her arms'."

"You think the leader might have written this?"

Will shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't."

"Why?"

"Dragons can't be heard by anyone except their masters," Will says. "No one can hear her except Doctor Lecter, and he's not the leader. The only one who's mentioned her directly was Tier, who took the woman's heart, and now he's dead. No one could have written this who had actually spoken to Mischa."

Jack frowns. "Well, Will, it sounds like you're implicating Doctor Lecter anyway."

"But it's not him, Jack," Will replies, curt and assured. "He's not the leader of the Cult. I know he's not."

"How can you be sure?"

Will sighs, scratches his neck, wipes his hand over his face. "I just…am," he replies, wincing at how weak a defense that is. An emotion Jack shares, if his expression is anything to go by. He scratches his neck again until it starts to really hurt, furls of skin coming up under his nails until he's in danger of making it bleed.

"Will," Jack begins, sighing.

"Don't," Will replies, holding up a hand. "I know what you're going to say. I'm getting too close to this."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"And whose fault is that?" Will snaps, and immediately subsides when Jack's eyes flash. "Sorry," he sighs, rubbing his hand over his aching neck again. He's squeezing his daemon's scruff so tightly that he feels it on his own flesh. He wants to let go, but dares not. "I'm sorry."

"This is happening, Will," Jack says after a moment. "The Cult is ready, like you said they would be, but they haven't given us a time or a place. Just his dragon. I need you in top shape if you're going to stop them killing again."

Will manages a weak smile. "It's just a story, Jack," he says, though he's not even sure he can say that anymore.

"A story people are killing over," Jack replies, sharp and low. "I can't let a civilian's dragon die, Will. I'd never hear the end of it."

Will nods. "I'll go see Doctor Lecter again," he says, standing. "Perhaps he will be able to shed some light on a possible date, or time."

Jack cocks his head to one side.

"I don't know enough about dragons, Jack," he adds. "I just don't, and I don't have the time to learn." He bites his lower lip, lets go of the dog, and takes the piece of paper. "Can I have this?"

"Sure," Jack replies, sitting back in his chair. "Just…don't relent, Will. Trust your instincts. This is going to get very messy very quickly, and we need to stop it _now_."

"I get it," Will says, hissing the words. He folds the paper and stuffs it into his pocket. "I'll see it done."

 

 

"Brolis," Mischa says, lifting her head from the second floor of Hannibal's study, where she'd been resting. Hannibal looks up, turning from his notes to meet her eyes. Her tongue flicks out, tasting the air, her tail curling around the ladder. "I have something to confess."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side and sits back in his chair. "What is it?" he asks her.

Her tongue flicks out again and her eyes click once as she blinks. Her aura is almost sheepish. "I've been thinking a lot about draugas."

Hannibal blinks, frowning. "Who is it you're calling your friend?" he asks.

She smiles at him, smoke curling from her nostrils and between her teeth. "The little man," she replies. "Only he didn't like being called that. So I'm calling him 'Draugas' instead."

Hannibal's frown deepens. "I don't understand," he says slowly. "He can hear you?"

She nods. "Through his stag." Her wings flutters with an air of false nonchalance. "When I touch him, I can feel his head like I feel yours. It's…chaotic."

"Will is a chaotic man," Hannibal replies, fighting down the anxiety he feels, knowing that Will can hear Mischa. It speaks to a connection Hannibal isn't sure he's supposed to be feeling, but he has never heard of a dragon being able to speak to someone without their master's knowledge.

"I think I can help him," she says.

"How so?"

Her tongue flicks out. "The same way I helped you."

Hannibal blinks. He stands and goes to the ladder and her head turns to follow him. "My darling," he begins, and sighs, looking down. His fingers curl over one of the ladder rungs just shy of the frills on her tail. "Why?"

"He called for me," she replies. "So I went. I feel a…kinship with him, brolis. I think we can help each other. I think he wants to be like us."

"I'm positive that's not the case," Hannibal replies, trying to remain calm. She has never behaved like this before. "He's not a killer."

She smiles, baring her teeth. "Yet."

Hannibal meets her eyes, his frown returning. "What are you planning, Mischa?" he asks.

"I'm tired of being alone," she says, announcing it like she would declare that she's hungry, or wants to go flying. She fans her wings again and her tail twitches out to brush along Hannibal's cheek. "I'm tired of you being alone. We don't have to be. Draugas is our friend, brolis. He will help us."

"Can you see the future now?" he asks.

She smiles. "When a river starts its journey down the mountain, do you think it sees the ocean? No. But it knows it must flow downward, and it will gather friends and strength, and people draw from it, or try to corral it, but the river runs all the same. It cannot be stopped." She turns her head, affixes him with one golden eye. "So, too, can we not be stopped."

"I'm in no mood to indulge your riddles," Hannibal says, anxiety making his tongue sharp. She huffs a laugh in answer.

A knock comes at his door, and she lifts her head, fins around her horns curling forward to listen. She gives a rumble of excitement, and stands.

"Doctor Lecter?" Will's voice calls, and Hannibal feels frozen in a way he rarely has before. His life is one of assuredness, of planning. Mischa's words have sent him off-kilter, barreling down the mountain like the river. "It's Will. I need to talk to you. The Cult left another message."

"Answer him, brolis," Mischa purrs, smiling. "He's calling for you."

Hannibal swallows, and goes to the door. Will is there, flushed and windswept, the stag's antlers arch up behind him like they're jutting from his own head. Hannibal steps to one side, allows him in, and freezes again.

The stag's eyes are golden, and when it exhales, smoke billows from its parted jaws.

"Will," Hannibal says, as Mischa drops down with another happy trill. "What's the matter?"

Will turns to him, looks at the stag, and swallows. The stag walks in, no longer calm and collected. Rather, it seems to run to Mischa's side, allows her to wrap it in her wings tightly. Her tail curls around its hindlegs and it lays down and Mischa covers it, purring, her eyes glowing with delight.

Hannibal doesn't quite know what to say.

"Hannibal," Will breathes, and his neck is red and looks scratched, his eyes contain a wildness that he looks desperate to try and reign in. "I need your help." His eyes flash to Mischa, and he swallows. Hannibal is sure the sight of his stag so lovingly covered by Mischa is disturbing, but he has the air of a man who is doggedly chasing one problem at a time.

He clears his throat. "Perhaps we should speak alone," Hannibal suggests. Mischa lifts her head, tongue flicking out, and Will nods.

Hannibal goes to the large windows behind the couch in his study and opens them. They are large enough for Mischa and the stag to climb through, and they do, one of her wings still resting on its back as it clambers over the window seat and out into the little garden beyond. Hannibal shuts the windows behind them, and turns to Will.

"Will," he says, when Will doesn't immediately speak. "Why is your stag breathing fire?"

Will winces, swallows hard enough his throat slicks, and scratches over the back of his neck. He pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket and walks over to Hannibal, thrusting it into his hands.

"I can't control that," he says tightly. "But I can control this. I need your help."

Hannibal swallows, unfolds the paper, and takes it to his desk to read it under the lamplight.

"The Cult is ready, Doctor Lecter," Will says, following and standing at the corner. "I need your help."

Hannibal looks up from the paper, takes in Will's frantic, twitching fingers, the tension in his shoulders, the wild and desperate shine in his eyes.

He swallows, and looks down at the paper again.

"Please," Will presses in his silence. Hannibal looks up again, thinking of Mischa's words. They can't be stopped. For the first time, Hannibal wonders if she meant Hannibal and her, or someone else entirely. "Please," Will says again, desperate and soft. "Tell me everything you know."

Hannibal presses his lips together, leans forward so both his elbows are on the table, and nods. "Take a seat," he says, and Will looks to the chairs, then back at him, his brow furrowing in question. "This is a dangerous precipice we stand on, Will, and one wrong move could bring down the whole assembly."

Will nods, and sits in one of the plush chairs.

"I need to know everything," he says, scratching the back of his neck. In his head, Hannibal can hear Mischa purring, overjoyed at being with the stag outside, unescorted. He wonders in a flash of clarity if it was a good idea to leave them alone, where Hannibal cannot watch her.

He wonders if Will is hearing her purring as well.

He stands, takes the paper, and sits across from Will. "Well," he begins with a sigh, "we'd best get started."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a //smidgen// of dubcon in this chapter, but more than Will and Hannibal are taken completely by surprise and Will is repressing like all Hell and not coerced sexual contact
> 
> I was super excited to write this chapter and I hope you guys like it :D

Will sits in his patient chair like he's on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Hannibal leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and frowns, resisting the urge to reach out and physically soothe the tremor of his leg, the antsy way his fingers curl and uncurl, the jitter in his neck as he rubs his chin against his shoulder like he's trying to scratch an itch.

"Have you been sleeping well, Will?" Hannibal asks, unable to help himself.

Will's eyes flash to him, narrowed and dark. His jaw clenches. "Not important," he says, "but no. The Red Dragon…I keep seeing him."

Hannibal blinks. "He has come to you in your dreams again?" he asks, and Will nods. "What did he say this time?"

"He lured me in," Will says. "It was dark, and I saw a light, and by the time I realized it was his fire stone, and I was touching it, it was too late. He asked me if I was afraid, and when I said I was, he told me he didn't want me to be. He said -." He stops, wincing, and scratches the nape of his neck again with a sharp hiss of pain. "He said our destinies are entwined now."

Hannibal sighs. "The Red Dragon has claimed you," he says.

"It was just a dream," Will replies, though he doesn't sound like he believes it.

Hannibal sits back, allowing Will some space, and unfolds the piece of paper with the message from the Cult on it. "Interesting," he says. "The message moves from plural to singular."

"I noticed that, too," Will replies. He bites his lower lip and tilts his head to one side, shifting his weight in the chair. His thighs spread, and his hands flatten on his knees, knuckles white. "Doctor Lecter, is it possible for Mischa to communicate with someone without you knowing about it?"

"In the same way an outdoor cat may receive multiple dinners at every household, yes," Hannibal replies, meeting Will's gaze. "I wouldn't know unless that person told me."

Will's eyes flash, and his jaw clenches, and he looks away. Hannibal wonders if Will might confess. But instead, he says; "Do you think, then, that it _might_ be possible that Randall Tier _did_ hear Mischa's voice, in his head?" Hannibal blinks. "That was the victim, on the altar. An old patient of yours, so Jack tells me."

"Randall," Hannibal repeats, and then remembers. "Yes. Troubled boy. I haven't thought about him for many years."

"What was the nature of his psychosis?" Will asks.

Hannibal smiles. "From what I recall, he was one of the few for whom a dragon hatched," he says. Will frowns. "But he lost the hatchling and it caused him a great amount of pain."

"Lost it?" Will parrots back. "It died?"

"So I was led to believe, yes."

"So Mischa…could have felt a kinship with him. Recognized the traits of a dragon rider in him," Will says, slowly, like he's testing each word before giving it voice. "Or the personality a dragon would be attracted to."

"I suppose," Hannibal says, quiet, thoughtful. "But again, I have heard of no cases where a dragon was heard outside of their master or those their master loved deeply." He pauses when Will's jaw clenches again, and his fingers turn to nails in his jeans. "Although," he adds, like the thought only just occurred to him, "the word you used – 'attracted'. Perhaps it is possible that there is some truth to that. A dragon rider and their bond to their dragon is very strong, and so, too, their desires can become one. If a dragon takes an interest in a person, the interest of their rider would undoubtedly follow, and vice versa."

Will flushes, looking down at his lap. "Did you consider Randall, that way?" he asks.

"He was a patient of mine," Hannibal replies coolly. "And a boy. I am not attracted to patients or to youths."

Will's eyes lift up, under dark lashes and the fluffy curl of his hair, and then away. His cheeks darken to rare under his bright irises, and then he huffs, sitting forward and rubbing his hands over his face, his elbows on his knees. "Alright. So this note," he says, and nods to the letter in Hannibal's lap. "The Cult is ready. Whatever they're going to do, they're going to do it soon. Are there any significant dates in a draconian calendar that are coming up?"

Hannibal purses his lips, looking to the window as he thinks.

"Dragon kind has always worshipped the sun," he says after a moment. "It is the lifeforce that brings about the possibility of all things, and through the sun they gain their strength as all reptiles do. But the Red Dragon legend was birthed from the East, where the moon played a greater significance."

"You told me the Red Dragon's wings blocked out the sun," Will murmurs, and Hannibal meets his eyes. "It would be significant, then, if something were happening when the sun wasn't shining. Perhaps when there was no light. A new moon, or a solar eclipse."

"There will not be another eclipse for years," Hannibal replies, shaking his head. "That can't be it."

Will nods, biting his lower lip. "What about…the lunar eclipse, then?" he asks, and Hannibal tilts his head to one side. Will meets his eyes and rubs his hand over the back of his neck, wincing. "A perfect line. The sun on one side, the moon on the other."

Hannibal presses his lips together. "That is much sooner."

Will nods. "Shit," he mutters, and clenches his jaw, upper lip curling back in a brief, frustrated snarl. He meets Hannibal's eyes again. "We have to put you and Mischa in protective custody, Doctor Lecter. If the Cult gets a hold of either of you, then we've lost."

Hannibal sighs. "Will -."

"I know, I know, you don't think you're in any danger, but that's not the point," Will argues. His eyes are alight with decisiveness and drive. He looks determined, focused. Powerful. Hannibal likes this look on him, half-feral though it is. "The point is that we don't have room to be wrong. _I_ can't afford to be wrong."

Hannibal hums, unable to stop himself smiling. He looks down at the letter and reads over the words, and tilts his head to one side. "She calls me to her arms," he reads aloud, and Will's teeth set together on edge, his lower jaw jutting out soon after, his molars grinding loud enough that Hannibal can hear them. Hannibal shifts his weight, folds one leg over the other, and looks to Will again. "Tell me, Will," he begins, "when did your daemon start to behave like a dragon?"

Will flinches, scratching at his neck. "That's not relevant," he says.

"Yes, it is," Hannibal replies. "Nothing that you see, nothing your mind creates for you, is without merit, and without purpose. Tell me, and perhaps I will consider allowing you to protect Mischa and myself."

Will looks at him, and lifts his chin in challenge. "The night after I touched her," he replies. Hannibal blinks. "The first night the Red Dragon came to me. I felt scales under the dog's fur. Then, another night, after my dreams, he had wings and golden eyes. Now he's breathing fire and I can't -. I can't -."

He stops, looks away, swallows. His hands find his thighs and spread out, clenching tightly.

"Jack wanted me to capture the mindset of a dragon," he says tightly, lowly. "Well, consider it damn well caught."

Hannibal smiles. "Are you afraid, Will?" he asks.

"Shouldn't I be?" Will snaps. "It's the end of the world, Doctor Lecter. A lot of people are going to get hurt."

"It's just a story."

"Well." Will swallows, and shakes his head. "So's the Bible, to some people. Doesn't stop people killing in its name."

Hannibal nods. "That's true," he replies slowly. He looks down at the note again, and presses his lips together. "If they intend to strike during the lunar eclipse, they'll need a place to prepare. Holding a dragon is no small feat. They will need a large building, a strong one, so that she cannot fly away or fight her way free."

"A Cathedral, maybe?" Will asks. "Made of stone. Can't melt stone with dragon fire."

"Certainly not the older temples," Hannibal concedes. "Though I'm not sure if there's anything old enough in America to count."

Will frowns. "What about Saint Anne's? In Annapolis?" Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "It was built in the seventeen-hundreds. There's an old military compound there, too. They'd have built it to withstand dragon fire."

Hannibal nods. "I'd have Jack track down any possible churches," he says. "Or any military locations. Just because they haven't infiltrated it doesn't mean they won't make use of older, abandoned sites."

Will nods. He sighs, rubbing his hand over his mouth and then up through his hair. "I still feel like I'm missing something," he says. Hannibal hums in question. "I don't understand. I can't understand. Why would they kill a dragon to bring one into the world? Why would the Red Dragon accept such a sacrifice? If it wants to free its kin, then it won't want a dragon to die."

"I agree," Hannibal replies. "But I don't see what else it could mean."

"'The Red Dragon Will Rise Again'," Will murmurs. He winces, clenching his eyes tightly shut, and rubs the heel of his hands into his eyes, up over his forehead. He leans forward and lets out a frustrated growl. "You said – you told me the Red Dragon cursed its fire stone and that it would reclaim it when it came back. But a fire stone can't just… _be_. There's a list of all fire stones held by collectors without dragons attached to them and none of them are in America."

He looks up. "What does a fire stone do, exactly?" he asks.

Hannibal hums. "It is the center of their heat," he replies. "It protects their heart from arrows, swords, spears, et cetera. Dragons do not actually breathe fire from their bellies. They produce a flammable gas, and it ignites when it contacts the heat of their fire stone. Their throats and mouths are fireproof, but the rest of them isn't. If a dragon were to swallow their stone, or it somehow sank into their bellies, they would be badly burned and die of their injuries."

"So, it wouldn't be something like stealing Mischa's fire stone and giving it to the Red Dragon, right?" Will says. "That wouldn't work."

"No," Hannibal replies with a shake of his head. "It wouldn't."

Will frowns, looking down at his hands, and then he bites his lower lip. "That first note," he begins, and Hannibal blinks at him. "The one after the woman's heart was taken. They described Mischa, but said it was a 'He'. We discounted it because we assumed they were just wrong about gender, but what if they weren't?"

Hannibal tilts his head to one side.

"What if Randall saw the Red Dragon as well? He demands the heart of a female." He pauses, and looks like he's thinking about his next words very carefully. "What if he wants Mischa's heart? Not in a literal sense, but in a romantic one? Like a mate?"

Hannibal blinks, and considers it.

Will stands abruptly, and reaches for the paper, and Hannibal hands it to him. His hands are shaking and there's a light in his eyes, puzzle pieces of a theory forming together as he reads the words. "She will be the vessel through which our master returns," he continues. "The black dragon with a crown of gold, she calls me to her arms. Through her, the Great Red Dragon will find his life and his love, and she will birth the greatest wonder the world has ever seen."

He looks at Hannibal. "What if it's not resurrection, Doctor Lecter, but reincarnation?"

Hannibal frowns, and stands as well. He steps close to Will and looks over his shoulder at the letter. Will lets him read it, and then he lets out a breath like he's been holding it for his entire life.

"They wrote 'birth'," he breathes. He turns and meets Hannibal's eyes. They're standing close enough that Hannibal can feel the heat coming off his skin. He can see the red scratches on Will's neck, raked and raw. "She's not a sacrifice, Doctor Lecter," he says. "She's going to be his mother."

Hannibal frowns, and thinks to what Mischa had said mere moments before Will's arrival. "I'm tired of being alone," he murmurs, and Will frowns. "That's what she said to me. She told me she felt a kinship, and she kept talking of mates and companionship. I didn't pay enough attention."

Could she have known?

"How do dragons breed, Doctor Lecter?" Will asks.

"When they find a suitable mate, a bond forms. Much like in humans, a hormone triggers their ovulation cycle, and they start to produce an egg. Then, during a mating flight, they will have sex and the male will fertilize the egg, and the female will lay it once it's large enough to sustain itself outside of her heat, when the baby's fire stone has matured."

"And would it be fair to say that that timeline fits with when the next eclipse is due to happen?"

Hannibal nods, frowning. "Yes," he replies. "It would."

Will looks to the window suddenly, and sets the paper down. "We have to find her," he says.

Hannibal nods. He grabs his coat and heads to the door, shrugging it on when Will opens it and they both hurry outside. They circle the building to the garden and Will lets out a soft, worried noise.

Neither Mischa nor the stag are in sight.

"Can you feel her?" he asks.

Hannibal looks up to the sky, opens his mind and tries to find her presence there. He can feel her, but she is distant and far away. It feels like there is a great wall between them, and though he can feel enough to know she's alive and happy, he cannot hear her thoughts. "Mischa!" he calls, both aloud and in his head.

Will looks deeply troubled, and he's looking around for the stag, but it's nowhere in sight. He steps into the middle of the garden and looks at the tracks in the mud, both from Mischa's claws and the stag's hooves. "They stop here," he says, nudging a particularly deep gouge with the toe of his boot. His frown deepens, and he clears his throat.

"What is it, Will?" Hannibal asks.

"The stag doesn't change when I'm around you," he says. "And if it ran off to follow her, there'd be tracks. But there aren't."

"Mischa could have carried it."

Will nods, and swallows harshly. He looks like he wants to say something, and desperately doesn't at the same time. "Can you feel her?" he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. "She's closed herself off from me," he replies with a frustrated huff. He looks at Will again. "Maybe she'll listen to you."

Will flinches. "Me?" he asks, stuttering.

"I know she can speak to you, Will," Hannibal says calmly. Will bites his lower lip, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks incredibly uncomfortable. "We can analyze why later, but we need to bring her back here. I must know if she's safe."

"She calls me 'Draugas'," Will murmurs. Hannibal nods – she'd told him as much. "What is 'Sister', in that language?"

Hannibal smiles. "Sesuo," he replies.

Will nods and turns his head up to the sky. The street lights touch his face almost reverently, his eyes shine, and his skin looks like it's glowing. Something ethereal and strong in the angle of his jaw and the exposed weakness of his throat.

"Sesuo," he whispers, and Hannibal is sure he's shouting in his mind. "Can you hear me?"

Abruptly, the wall between Hannibal and Mischa's mind falls. Hannibal would be aggravated, if it weren't for what follows after.

Hannibal has felt desire before, felt lust. He's felt the primal thrill of a hunt, the bone-deep satisfaction of a kill. But this is…this is something else entirely. This is running for a thousand miles and reaching the first cool drink of water. This is teetering on the precipice of pleasure and suddenly plunging over the cliffside. This is _relief_ , so compounded and strained that it shines like diamond amidst coal.

Will gasps beside him and falls to his knees. Hannibal has to fight not to do the same.

"Brolis," she sighs. "Draugas." Hannibal feels her mind flicker against his, hears the rush of wind on his face. Feels the tight coil of a tail and wings around his body. Her pleasure stiffens, spikes, and Hannibal growls, his eyes closing when he sees, through her eyes, the golden gaze of another dragon. All black, with a crown of gold just like hers. The dragon's horns more closely mimic those of a stag, strong and shining, a dominant male in its prime. The other dragon's spines gleam with gold and red, and Will moans when the dragon parts its jaws and sinks its teeth into Mischa's neck as they fly together.

"What is this?" Will demands. "What is she _doing_?"

But he knows. They both do.

"Mischa," Will moans, breathless. Hannibal opens his eyes and sees Will still kneeling, his head in his hands. He's sweaty and shaking, pummeled with the force of her desire – a force Hannibal thinks Will might also feel, as his daemon curls around Mischa's body and digs its claws into her flanks. "Mischa, please -."

He cuts off abruptly and Hannibal stumbles, reaching out to catch himself on the handrail along the side of the building. He feels Mischa's purr in his own chest and his body burns as she's penetrated, Will's dragon daemon's wings flare out wide enough to touch every corner of the sky, and his strength is incredible. He wraps his wings around Mischa's and forces her into the freefall that is the height of a dragon mating. Before they crash into the ground, the male must mount her and breed with her. Hannibal can feel when he does it, when Mischa's body parts for him and she breathes a hot streak of flame into the sky.

He forces his eyes to open, and looks up to see the orange glow. He can see her fire, feel her pleasure as the ground rushes up to embrace them. The daemon doesn't let go of her, but turns their bodies so that they crash onto its back. It rolls, snarling, and Will snarls with it, his eyes bright and wide as he turns his head to one side and his gaze locks with Hannibal's.

They're both sweating, ravished by their animal counterparts. Hannibal knows Will feels this much more intimately than he is – Hannibal is a guest in Mischa's head, but Will's very soul is in that dragon daemon. His eyes are wild and dark, his teeth bared, and jaws parted like he wants to sink them into something.

The dragons roll across an open field and the daemon pins Mischa to the ground, mounts her again and bites her neck to keep her still. Mischa's purr is loud, rumbling along the ground and it makes Hannibal's knees tremble, weak and unable to lock.

"No," Will gasps, his nails digging into the ground, tearing through the grass and slick mud. His eyes flutter closed and his back arches, head bowed. " _Fuck_." Mischa's mind flickers, warmth turning to bright, blistering heat, and the daemon roars, letting go of her neck, and another jet of red flame bursts through the sky.

Mischa is purring, and the dragons part, and Hannibal feels like he can see again. "Will," he says, biting his lip hard enough to sting. His stomach is clenching with desire, his heart racing. His cock is hard, denied enough contact for its own release, but he's sure it wouldn't take much for him to fling himself over that same cliffside.

"Will," he growls again, and manages to straighten. He walks over to Will, who's breathing harshly, trembling, sweat-stained. He touches Will's shoulder and Will flinches, shrugging him off. He ends up in a chaotic sprawl on his back on the grass, and Hannibal sees he's similarly affected. His neck is flushed red with arousal, his cock an obscene bulge in his jeans.

"Don't touch me," Will snarls, scrambling back. He hisses, whimpering like he's in pain, and presses the heel of his hand against his cock to try and will it away. "Don't fucking touch me."

"I had no idea," Hannibal says. It feels very important that Will knows he means that. He resists the urge to point out that, while Mischa is an animal and has a will of her own, Will's daemon does not. It cannot do what its master doesn't want of it.

Will opens his eyes, half-feral, gasping raggedly. "He told me I'd already lost," Will whispers. He looks up at Hannibal and he looks so incredibly young, in that moment, so innocent and _scared_. "The Red Dragon. He told me our destines were entwined." He huffs a laugh, borderline hysterical. There are tears in his eyes and he wipes at them, smearing mud on his cheeks. "She can't…a daemon isn't a real thing," he says, and looks to Hannibal with wayward hope. "She can't conceive with my daemon."

"I'm starting to believe anything might be possible," Hannibal replies hoarsely. "There is a lot of Old Magic still left in the world, Will."

Will nods. His jaw clenches and his fingers curl. He pulls his legs up to try and hide just how affected he still is, and his eyes drop to Hannibal's stomach. He blushes, and lowers them further. "She can't lay that egg, Doctor Lecter," he says darkly.

"I won't be able to stop her," Hannibal replies.

"Well, you have to do _something_ ," Will hisses. "If the Cult gets their hands on that egg…if it hatches…"

Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "They still need a name," he says. Will looks up at him again, wide-eyed and desperate. "And the Red Dragon is still bound by the laws of its kind. He cannot hatch until his master touches the egg."

Will nods, jaw clenching. "So we lock it away," he says. "We destroy it." Hannibal blinks at him. "I will do whatever I have to, to protect my kind."

"Your kind is not people like Jack," Hannibal replies, as gently as he can. "You're a dragon now, Will. Your daemon reflects it."

Will growls, scratching the back of his neck again. He winces in pain and shakes his head, abruptly pushing himself to his feet. "I'm nothing like you," he says tightly. "Or her."

"You're willing to kill a defenseless hatchling over a story," Hannibal says, unable to hide the judgement and the anger from his voice. Will flinches at the sound of it. "How, then, are you any different from the men you are hunting?"

Will bites his lower lip. His eyes are dark, and he meets Hannibal's gaze steadily. "Are you are willing to protect this egg?" he demands. "After what she did? She _lied_ to you, Doctor Lecter. She lied to both of us."

"And she will continue to do so, to protect her young," Hannibal replies. "A dragon's love is ferocious, Will. She will not hesitate to do anything she can to protect what she loves."

Will looks at him for a long, long moment. Then, he smiles. It's not a kind smile. In fact, it unsettles Hannibal more than he'd care to admit.

"Well, then, I guess you're right," Will finally says; "I'm just like a dragon."

Hannibal swallows, and nods. He knows what Will is trying to say without saying it. He will need to be more vigilant than ever over the next weeks leading to the eclipse, and then after Mischa lays her egg; the threat is not just from this nameless Cult, anymore.

He clears his throat, and sets his eyes to the sky. "So be it."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another smidgen of dubcon, for those sensitive to it. again, no forced sexual contact between Will and Hannibal, but Will can't separate himself from what his daemon is feeling/doing

Will's ears are ringing when he flees to his car and peels out of the parking lot from Hannibal's office as quickly as he dares. His pulse is racing, his hands too-tight on the steering wheel and nails digging into the faux leather viciously enough to peel. He can barely see, and it's not raining nor foggy but the windshield blurs as though it's much warmer on the inside of the car than the outside.

Will's chest is on fire.

He wipes his knuckles across his sweaty forehead and moans, screeching to a halt at a red light and closing his eyes as he feels his daemon give chase to Mischa again. Her laughter fills his head, and the way her spines tickle the male dragon's chin – Will's own jaw lifts in answer, and when she licks at the dragon's neck, Will feels satisfied.

The blare of a horn behind him jolts him back to the present, back to this reality in his head and not the one his daemon is experiencing. He slams on the gas and the car lurches, engine wanting to stutter but too old and too reliable to do anything but obey.

He makes it to the Beltway before his daemon catches Mischa again. The sky lights up with flames and Will's eyelids flutter, he gasps, jaws parted, and teeth bared. He wants to _bite_ – an echo from his daemon's desires, but it has the freedom to fulfil them. Will clenches his jaw and tastes blood and metal in his mouth and he jerks the wheel, almost slamming into the back of a Honda in front of him. His cock aches in his jeans, his heart catches, judders, freefalls as his dragon – his daemon? His _dragon_ – as it curls its claws in Mischa's flanks, digs in, and mounts her again.

Will slams on the brakes at the right-hand shoulder, just before an exit. He flicks his hazards on and, unable to stop himself, tears at the button and zip of his jeans and only feels a flicker of relief when his hand wraps around his erection.

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes and slouches down so that those slowing down to the exit don't immediately see what he's doing. He exposes his throat and hears Mischa purr in happiness as she coils around his dragon. Will's fingers tighten around his cock as his dragon penetrates her. He can feel it, feel is as easily as if Will had a woman in his lap. He hears her purring and his neck goes lax, his shoulders roll forward and tense up as he twists his hand on the head of his cock, hips jerking forward. It's not fantasy, not even arousal if he wanted to put a name to it – it's like someone plugged a livewire in his brain, found the lever that opens floodgates to pleasure, to love, to the animal desire to fuck and breed, and is jolting it with enough electricity to power the world.

He moans, slams his free hand against the top of the steering wheel and rests his forehead against it, and shudders, before he becomes aware of the red glow of brake lights, and they do not pass him, but pull ahead of his car and stop. The flash of the reverse lights makes him wince, as the car is placed in park, and Will growls to himself, wipes at his fogged windshield.

His eyes narrow as he recognizes Hannibal's car. Then, they abruptly widen, as the driver-side door opens, and Will sits back, hurriedly stuffing himself back into his jeans and untucking his shirt to hide the obscene bulge his denied arousal makes.

Hannibal approaches the car and Will winds his window down. "Going my way?" Hannibal asks, smile wry, eyes dark.

Will flexes his jaw and wants to shake his head, wants to demand Hannibal leave him the fuck alone, but he's nowhere close to home and in no condition to get there.

Still, he must protest. Hannibal's eyes are set on his face, either too polite or too innocent to travel lower. Will suspects the former far more than the latter. Hannibal knows exactly what Will is feeling, what he's experiencing right now.

His eyelids flutter when his dragon flattens itself over Mischa, curls around her tightly, and their warm purrs fill his head. His hips rut up of their own accord, seeking pressure and tightness and he has a flash of half-mad indignation that his daemon is enjoying itself much more than he is.

"I – I can't -." A moan clogs his throat and he puts both hands on the wheel, turning away from Hannibal's all-seeing, dark eyes. He's trembling and sweaty from the heat in his car and it's not stopping, it's not _stopping_. "How long will she use him for?"

"Until she's satisfied," Hannibal replies. He doesn't sound nearly as affected as Will is, and Will doesn't want to think about what that says about his daemon as a lover.

His brow knits and he bites his lower lip, sucks it between his teeth, takes a piece of chapped skin and rips it off and all it does is make him burn hotter. "Can you -? Is she still -?"

"She cut off our connection, for my sake," Hannibal murmurs. He steps closer and puts his hand on the window ledge and Will wants to laugh at the image they must make. If they were in the wrong part of town, people would get ideas.

Hannibal's words make him grit his teeth. "How polite of her," he snarls. His eyes slant sideways, take in the flexing tendons on the back of Hannibal's hands – his strong, capable hands. Will trembles again. "You should leave me here," he says, low and rough. "I threatened to kill your – nephew? Son? I don't know what to call it."

"Be that as it may, you are in no condition to drive," Hannibal replies coolly. "I can have a tow truck pick up your car, but I will not leave you stranded."

Will huffs. "You want to change my mind?" He tears his gaze away from Hannibal's knuckles, the curl of his fingers – tries with all his might to stop imagining how it would feel to have those hands on his ribs, his waist, holding him tightly while they rut together.

His daemon's lust surges in him and makes him arch with a sharp cry, too sudden for him to contain it. Mischa's purr rebounds in his head like the echo of gunfire and he closes his eyes, tilts his head back against the seat and shakes as, once again, the dragons freefall.

"Fuck," he whispers. He's still hard and he's sure all it would take is a touch, just a touch, and he'd spill into his clothes like he hasn't since he was a teenager. Hannibal hasn't moved, and Will looks to him, wide-eyed and helpless.

Hannibal's lips twitch. His cheeks are flushed with lingering remnants of Mischa's arousal. "They may be gone all night, Will," he says, gentle under the rush and roar of passing cars. Hannibal leans in, lowers his voice, and Will shifts his weight, presses his thighs tight together and bows his head away from Hannibal's teeth.

He breathes out. If he can't run, there is only one other choice. He carefully, slowly, flexes his fingers and lowers them from the steering wheel, and grabs his messenger bag from the passenger seat.

 Hannibal smiles, and steps back to let Will open the door. Will lets the window roll all the way up, turns off the car and takes his keys, and gets out of the car. The bright lights of oncoming traffic sear his eyes and he flinches from them, turns to see Hannibal with his cell out and calling a towing company.

Will walks slowly around the front of his car, stumbles briefly and is glad Hannibal doesn't try to touch him, to catch him. He is, it seems, obeying Will's command that they not touch each other. Will makes it to the passenger door and pours himself inside, collapsing with relief when the door closes behind him and he is greeted with blessed quiet.

He wraps his knuckles tight in the strap of his bag and presses it down against his crotch, hissing as the dragons find Earth again, roll in wet grass and tear up whatever field they're in. Mischa laughs, her jaws parted to reveal the glow of her fire, and she licks his daemon's neck and Will feels it himself.

He slaps a hand to his throat, feels the burn of her tongue against him, and whimpers.

Hannibal gets in the car once the call is done, and looks over to Will. Will's window is already fogging up, fire burning him from the inside. His eyes drop to Will's lap and he lets out a quiet, sympathetic noise.

Will shakes his head, bares his teeth.

"Will, if you need to -."

"Just drive," Will growls. Snaps his jaws tight together and wonders if his eyes are glowing gold.

Hannibal sighs, and obeys, shifting the car back into drive and pulling up to the exit lane, then taking it off the 495. He loops around and begins to drive back to Baltimore.

Will can't tear his eyes away from Hannibal's hands. The glow from the dashboard softens his face, makes him look younger and more approachable, and Will jerks his head, turns his gaze away, and tastes ash on his tongue.

His daemon's release has cooled him, somewhat. Now Mischa is merely grooming him, purring loudly, and Will trembles and wipes a hand over his face. His fingers smell like sex. He wonders if Hannibal can smell it.

He reaches forward and turns the air vents towards him, turns on the air conditioning at full blast. Hannibal huffs. "We can roll the windows down, too," he suggests.

Will wants to growl, but he nods, breathing in deeply when Hannibal cracks all four windows and cool air rushes in, mixing with the conditioned air and brushing Will's forehead like a friend.

"I don't understand you," he says, soft and low. He sees Hannibal's head tilt. "How can you condone this?"

"I am not Mischa, nor am I her father, or keeper," Hannibal replies, and Will frowns for that is what he assumed a dragon rider was. "Her will and her desires are her own. I have no power to dissuade or encourage her."

"And what does that mean for me?" Will whispers.

Hannibal does look at him, then, in the brief respite afforded by a red light. Will feels Mischa licking his dragon again, her tail flexing and strong around its own. Her wings flatten under his dragon's and Will shivers, sweat gathering under his arms from her warmth.

Hannibal clears his throat, sets his eyes forward when the light on Will's face changes from red to green. He drives. "Typically, dragons and their riders are attracted to an equal pair," he says slowly, like he knows Will is not going to react well to it. "The male and female of each species are drawn to each other."

"But I am not female," Will whispers. "Neither are you. And my daemon might look the part, but he is not a dragon."

Hannibal's mouth twitches like he is fighting the urge to smile, and Will shivers when he feels Mischa's scales grow hot again. He moans, rocks forward and puts his head in his hands.

"No," he says, trembling. "Not again. _Please_."

Mischa's consciousness flashes to him, touching his daemon and touching Will in turn. "Draugas," she purrs, affectionate and soft. "Aš tave myliu."

Will trembles. "Aš tave myliu," he whispers, and Hannibal blinks at him.

"Will?" he asks.

"That's what she said," Will replies hoarsely. He blinks down at his boots and lets go with one hand, snaking his palm against his cock without conscious thought. His dragon is chasing her, now, and they take to the sky and Will's chest expands with elation. "What does that mean?"

Hannibal clears his throat. "It means…" He stops, swallows, and Will lifts his head to see his jaw tighten. "It means 'I love you'."

Will gapes at him, openly, before his shoulders roll and his back bows. He presses down on his cock through his jeans and hisses with pleasure. His daemon dives, wings tight to gain speed, reels and rolls and surges up to catch Mischa from below, forcing their bodies into another coil that feels as familiar as the touch of sunlight on Will's face.

He shudders, rears back against the seat, and fumbles at his jeans again. He can't take it anymore. He shoves his hand into his jeans, under his boxers, and wraps his fist tight around his cock, his other hand tugging at his hair as Mischa bites at his dragon's horns and snarls with desire.

"Oh _God_ ," he groans, hips jerking up, seeking tightness, seeking heat. He yanks on his hair and slides his hand down the nape of his neck as his dragon bites her, pours fire from its mouth onto her scales. "I'm – I'm sorry, I -."

"It's alright, Will." Hannibal's voice is rough, yet soothing. Will would liken it to a growl. "Don't fight it."

Will groans, parts his jaws, and his mind shrieks with pleasure as his daemon penetrates Mischa again, holds her close and wraps its giant wings around her body, forcing her to fall. Mischa's claws scratch at the fire stone in its chest and she blows a jet of flame to the sky as the Earth rushes up to meet them.

Will's orgasm hits him as the dragons collide with the Earth. His shoulders jerk, concussed and bruised, and he spills thick and hot over his fingers. He drags his shirt over his lap, to catch the mess so he doesn't ruin Hannibal's car seats, and he whimpers, sweating and trembling fiercely as the dragons roll, rut together, and Will finally, _finally_ , senses that it's over.

He opens his eyes, draws in one ragged breath, another, his teeth bared. His clean hand is back on his thigh and that's when he registers Hannibal's warm, soft palm, petting through the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck.

His neck goes limp and his head rolls, his cheek touches Hannibal's exposed wrist, and he groans in relief.

Hannibal's lips twitch in a smile, and he withdraws his fingers. Will bites his lower lip, so he doesn't whine for their return. He puts his eyelids at half-mast, unable to draw the strength to open his eyes fully. Hannibal's cheeks have darkened, sweet wine under his skin, and Will trembles again.

Will swallows, tries to speak. His mouth is too dry. He clears his throat and tries again, dragging his hand from under his clothes and wiping his seed absently on his jeans. "You can take me back to my car, now," he whispers.

Hannibal does smile, then. "No," he replies coolly.

Will expected as much for an answer, but he sighs nonetheless. "You know I can't hurt her," he murmurs. "Not really."

"That's not my concern," Hannibal replies.

Will's mouth twitches, he manages an off-kilter smile and sighs to the car roof. "Then what, pray tell, is your concern, Doctor Lecter?"

"Mischa is clearly enamored with you, and with your daemon," Hannibal replies. His hand is on the gear shift and Will wants to touch him. Wants to wipe his sweat on Hannibal's fingers and wants to know if Hannibal likes the taste of it. He swallows. "You must understand, Will. I won't let you break her heart."

"That's not your decision to make," Will says, as coldly as he can manage. It's hard when his chest still burns. "I have free will." He pauses. "Don't I?"

"Do you think you can separate yourself from your daemon so easily?" Hannibal challenges, his brow furrowing. "You may claim you have no control over it, but it cannot simply separate itself from you and live freely. It cannot act on desires you do not share."

"If you're implying I'm sexually attracted to your dragon -."

"You know I'm not," Hannibal says firmly. "Don't act dense."

Will swallows, his eyes still on Hannibal's hand. "What does this mean?" he whispers. "For us?"

"If there is no common ground we can find," Hannibal begins, and stops. His car slows as he pulls into his suburb and Will swallows, sees the arching metallic shine of the green house skeleton. Sees the moon, beyond it.

He parks his car in a free space and turns off the engine, finally turning and regarding Will fully. The force of his stare makes Will flinch, just a little, fingers curling in his jeans. He flushes under the heat of it.

"You can't mate with me," Will says, as calmly as he is able. "I don't consent to that."

Hannibal breathes out through his nose. "That's not what I'm suggesting," he says.

Will smiles, bares his teeth. "The Cult wants Mischa's egg," he whispers. "But the egg must have a master. The hatchling must have a name. I will not afford them the opportunity to locate either."

"Then they will not have it," Hannibal replies.

Will's smile widens. "When is the eclipse, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal swallows, his eyes raking down Will's lax posture. "July," he replies. "I believe."

Will nods, swallows, and straightens up. His clothes are tacky with cooling seed and he grimaces, looking down at the blooming stains on his lap and thigh.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, and Will slants his gaze towards the other man. Hannibal's hand curls, still on the gear shift, and he sighs. "I am asking you," – not begging. Hannibal doesn't beg, "As a friend. As _my_ friend. Turn your thoughts away from this crusade of yours."

"You know, in some circles, what just happened could be denounced as rape, Doctor Lecter," Will growls.

" _Your_ daemon turned for her," Hannibal argues. "She called for a mate – you answered."

"Through coercion," Will bites out, lifts his chin and meets Hannibal's eyes. "Deception. My daemon changed because of the Red Dragon – a mindset Jack forced on me, and something she took advantage of." He shakes his head, once, sharply. "There's no happy way for this to end."

"Will," Hannibal says.

"Tell me where you had my car taken," Will says. "I'll leave right now. I'll tell Jack to lock down Saint Anne's, rob the Cult of their altar. We don't ever have to see each other again."

"Will -."

"That's what you want, isn't it? You want me out of the way. So does she. I was just a means to an end."

"Will, _stop_."

Will tightens his jaw, swallows back the poison sitting like ash on his tongue. He glares at Hannibal, and Hannibal sighs, rubs a hand over his mouth, and sits back in his seat.

"I am not asking you to forgive those who have wronged you," Hannibal murmurs.

Will huffs. "Only you do not count yourself among those people."

"Should I?" Hannibal challenges, looking back to him again. "Have I touched you, have I provoked you, have I done anything except try to help? Do not forget, it was you who came to me. You who sought out my guidance and my help. Have I provided anything less?"

Will swallows, and looks away. He can't hold Hannibal's dark eyes. He breathes out.

"The hour is late," Hannibal says, gently. "And my home is safe. When Mischa returns, we can all speak together, and try to come to an agreeable common ground."

Will's chest clenches with heat at the thought of seeing her again. What he feels, he knows it's not hate – it is too focused to be anger, too thorny to be resignation or acceptance. Rather, it's energy, pure and molten and waiting for an outlet.

"What if they mate again?" Will whispers. "What if your mind is not shielded, next time?"

_What if you come for me in the middle of the night?_

_What if I want you to?_

Hannibal sighs, and holds out his hand. Will's eyes flash to it and he bites his lower lip hard enough to hurt.

"Come inside with me," Hannibal implores him. "I will see you fed, and rested – and, hopefully, calmed. That is all I want."

No agenda? Will doesn't believe it. But he can't deny the pulse of warmth in his gut when he slides his clean, sweat-damp hand into Hannibal's, and their fingers lace and he feels, somehow, settled.

"'Draugas' doesn't mean 'friend', does it?" he whispers.

Hannibal smiles. "That is one translation," he replies. His thumb brushes along Will's knuckles and Will's fingers curl, tighten. "Another is 'companion', another still is 'mate'."

Will breathes out. "Yeah," he says. "Figured it was something like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, I won't make you guys wait until July for the lunar eclipse in this story :D


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal knows that the next few weeks will be extremely volatile. If Will continues on his crusade to rid Mischa of her egg – or, worse, the Cult gets a hold of her before Hannibal and Will can do anything – then what follows after could be catastrophic. Hannibal doesn't know what Will would do with her egg, if he would lock it away, or try to destroy it, or what might happen, but Hannibal knows he cannot allow Will to remain so bristly and defensive if they are to ever come to some kind of agreement.

Mischa's mind is still closed from him, and Hannibal stifles a low growl as he leads the way into his home. He wants, very badly, to scold her. She's behaving like a child, taking what she wants with no thoughts to things like consequences or the will of others she is affecting.

Yes, Will's daemon changed into a dragon, and mated with her, but Will himself is not a rider. He doesn't have the privilege of separating himself from what his daemon does, as Hannibal can. Rightfully, Hannibal could reasonably wash his hands of the whole situation, accept Mischa's attraction to Will's daemon and feel nothing for the man himself, and ignore her when she purrs and preens at him, and fight down any affection or endearment he feels – but Will cannot. Will's soul is a slave to Mischa's will and desires, and so Hannibal understands. He does.

Loss of control can be jarring, and traumatic, to someone such as Will.

He leads Will inside and to his kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asks. "Wine?" He turns, sees Will staring at the kitchen counter, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his brow still shiny with sweat. His eyes are dark, reflected deeper in the black circles under his eyes and the sweat-greasy curl of his hair against his nape. "Or perhaps coffee?"

Will's mouth twitches, and he shakes his head. "No," he replies.

Hannibal nods, and pours himself and Will a glass of water. He sets Will's on the counter, careful not to crowd him, and after a second Will sighs, relents, and takes it. His fingers are still shaking as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a long swallow.

"Do you still feel them?" Hannibal asks.

Will winces, shaking his head. "No," he replies. "They're resting for now." His tone is dark, angry, and Hannibal understands – truly, he does. He can't imagine how it feels to have one's body become a slave to another's will, the loss of control and agency Will is feeling.

He takes a sip from his own glass, and regards Will. "Perhaps we should sit," he says. Will's jaw tightens, and he nods, and leads the way into the dining room. He sits at the left side of the table and Hannibal takes his place at the head of it.

Will's eyes are fixed doggedly on his hands, as they curl around the water glass. He swipes his thumb over the condensation, and rolls his shoulders, sighing heavily. "Doctor Lecter," he begins, and stops, licking his lips. Hannibal lets him stew.

Will swallows, tries again; "You didn't see this coming," he murmurs. His eyes dart to Hannibal's chin, rake up his face, fall away again. Hannibal shakes his head. "You – please." Will's shoulders tense, and he shivers. "Please don't lie to me."

"I'm not, Will," Hannibal replies. "I swear, I didn't know Mischa intended to mate with your daemon." He pauses, and, for honesty's sake, adds; "I knew she had been giving thought to taking a mate. She worried I was lonely, and she is, truthfully, at an age where the mating urge is due to occur in her, but I would have never imagined she would look at anything except her own kind."

"And now, I'm similar enough to sate her," Will replies darkly.

Hannibal sighs, nodding. "So it appears."

"I'm not a dragon, Doctor Lecter," Will says tightly. His eyes are back on his hands, and Hannibal wonders if he's starting to feel the discomfort, seed drying against his skin, staining his clothes. He should offer Will a shower, or something to change into – he would if he wasn't certain Will would refuse, not wanting to be more vulnerable in Hannibal's house.

Hannibal smiles weakly. "I know."

Will swallows. "I just don't understand," he says weakly. "You said – you said dragons can't be heard except by their rider, and by who their rider feels a special connection to." His eyes meet Hannibal's, shadowed and green.

Hannibal's smile softens. He knows what Will is asking. "I'll admit, Will, I find you fascinating," he begins. Will goes tense. Hannibal worries for the muscles in his neck and shoulders. "Your shapeshifting daemon is an oddity, and your ability to read crime scenes is remarkable. But, if you're asking if I'm in love with you, I will tell you that I'm not."

Will blinks at him, and relaxes somewhat. Hannibal can't decipher the exact emotion on his face – whether it's relief, or disappointment. His chest feels warm.

Will wipes a hand over his face and heaves another sigh. "I don't suppose you'll take me back to my car," he says dryly.

Hannibal smiles. "I would feel neglectful if I did," he replies. "The hour is late, and I still feel like there are many things we ought to discuss."

"Discuss," Will repeats, tone thick with venom. "I don't think there's anything you could say to me that would change how I feel."

Hannibal presses his lips together. "I understand."

"Do you?" Will's eyes snap to his, narrowed, dark. He lifts his chin in challenge. "You have no idea how I feel."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side, but gives Will his victory, dropping eye contact. He takes a sip of cold water. "You see me as an agent of your violation," he says. When he meets Will's eyes again, he sees Will biting his lower lip, gives a sharp nod. "And I understand. Mischa is my dragon, you see me as someone who should be responsible, or at least accountable, for her actions. But." He sighs. "Dragons are not daemons, Will. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you will understand that I could not command her to do anything, more than I might command the tides alter their rhythm or the sun change in course."

"I feel like…this has all been pre-ordained," Will says quietly. The venom on his tongue is fading away, softening as Hannibal draws the poison out. "The Red Dragon legend, the Cult's designs. Are we all just agents of fate and destiny, no more in control of them than we are the seasons?"

Hannibal smiles. "An interesting comparison," he says. "Given that, over time, man has changed the seasons." Will frowns. "Our very presence alters the nature of the world in which we live. The ozone layer is breaking, the temperatures rise. And yet, just as we are slowly changing the world, humans also choose to adapt their surroundings."

"Adapt or die, then," Will murmurs. The corner of his mouth quirks up, showing his teeth. "That's what you're telling me?"

"Only if you see yourself as under threat," Hannibal replies coolly. Will huffs, and takes another drink of water. The flush on his cheeks is fading, and he runs a hand through his hair to shove his curls back from his forehead. "At the risk of opening fresh wounds, I will say that I believe Mischa's 'use' for your daemon is done with. If she has conceived, she will likely not call upon him again."

Will flinches.

"So, that's it then," he growls. "Are dragons so quick to discard trinkets when finished with them?"

Hannibal looks at Will, and smiles. "Does that insult you?"

"If she's going to use me like that, she could at least call in the morning," Will says, dark and bitter. Hannibal's smile widens, and he sits forward on the table, his elbows braced on its edge. Will's eyes flash to him, and he swallows.

"Your nature and your lifestyle exempt you from many of life's simple pleasures," he says. Will's jaw clenches and his fingers tighten around his glass. "Do you ever consider yourself lonely, Will?"

"Stop," Will growls, baring his teeth. His eyes flash, a spark of gold passing through his iris. Hannibal blinks, tilting his head to one side when Will's eyes widen, and he sits back and puts a hand over his mouth. Like his teeth ache. Hannibal knows the feeling intimately – he gets that way whenever he and Mischa go hunting together.

"I imagine there is some part of you, however small, that resents the missed opportunity for a family," Hannibal continues, softer now. "A mate, and children."

" _Stop_."

Will stands, abruptly, glaring at Hannibal. "Don't psychoanalyze me," he hisses. There are flecks of gold in his eyes that Hannibal can see, as close as he is. Will rubs his hands over his face, up through his hair, and steps back. "I -." He stops, shakes his head like there's a fly at his ear. Hannibal regards him, curious. "I need to sleep."

Need to? Hannibal smiles.

"I have a guest room," he says, standing as well. "And you are free to make use of the shower."

Will's cheeks darken abruptly, he shifts his weight and bites his lower lip. But he nods, battle-weary, his eyes on Hannibal's hands as Hannibal gestures towards the stairs.

"Thank you," he says tersely, and flees down the hallway and up the stairs. Hannibal sighs as he hears the door to the bathroom close, and the shower start. He clears their glasses, pours out the water, and sets himself up in his study with a glass of wine and a book.

He will be awake when Mischa returns home, and they will speak together, and hopefully put all this ugly business behind them.

 

 

Will hears music. A chorus of voices, calling him forward.

He is facing the altar in the Cathedral, the great fire stone set in the wall burning bright enough to illuminate the fountain of gold. It still bubbles away freely, a happy shine in the warm, red light. Will is sitting on the golden floor, perfectly centered between two octagonal pillars, and he sighs.

Behind him, a great beast's rumble cuts through the air, harmonizes with the lighter splash of gold as it pours down the alter and rushes towards Will's bare feet. Will dips his fingers in it, finds that it doesn't burn. It does not trap him, but wraps around him like the current of a steam, encasing his feet, his thighs, his hands when he presses them flat to the floor.

"So," Will says, "I suppose you got what you wanted."

The Red Dragon laughs, and Will turns his head when the beast's foreleg comes into view, and his head rests upon it like a sunning cat. Will knows, behind him, the Red Dragon's giant body is curled up, feels the heat radiating from him like a sauna against his back. The Red Dragon's wing settles lightly around Will's body, encasing him, embracing him.

"Purgatory is a very lonely plane," the dragon replies, fixing Will with one large, golden eye. His tongue flicks out, tasting the air, and Will's fingers curl. Dipped in gold, he wants to paint the dragon's cheek.

He reaches out, hesitating at the upward curl of his smiling mouth. Then, his fingers land, and the dragon closes his eyes, rumbles something like a purr. His scales are silky-smooth, fine and warm under Will's hand. He drags his fingertips up from the corner of the dragon's mouth, until he reaches the eyebrow ridge, extending his smile.

"Why me?" he whispers. The dragon opens his eyes again, slitted and burning brightly. Will's entire reflection is in his pupil and Will shivers, curling up tighter, his free arm around his knees. "Why did you come to me?"

The dragon smiles again, baring sharp and large teeth. His tail curls around Will's front, blocking the flow from the golden fountain. His spines gleam, pretty and sharp. Will imagines he could do a lot of damage with the right kind of power.

"It is not often," the dragon murmurs, drawing Will's attention back to him, "that I meet someone with a dragon's strength. To find a pair that are worthy is even more rare, tėvas."

Will swallows. "Mischa."

The dragon rumbles. "Your mate."

"No," Will says, shaking his head sharply. "She's not my mate."

"Yet you care deeply for her."

"No," Will protests again. Weaker.

The dragon laughs. "Do not assume you are special," he says, and Will frowns, blinking at him. "This event horizon happens more often than you might think, tėvas. This anniversary just happened to spawn the perfect circumstances."

Will swallows. "You did not come to me because I was the only one who could hear you, but simply you were there, and I noticed you. Is that what you're saying?"

"A fisherman goes where the fish are, but they may not bite," the dragon replies. "You are where the fish are, tėvas."

Will frowns. "You keep calling me that," he says. "What does that mean?"

"Will."

Will blinks, tearing his eyes away from the dragon's smile. The fire stone goes abruptly dark and Will freezes, his eyes widening as the dragon's heat pulls away from him. He turns his head, sees the fire stone in its chest like the light on a cliffside, calling him to shore. He stands, and tries to run for it, but there are hands at his shoulders, pushing him back.

"Will -."

"No!" Will snarls, clawing at the hands on him. "I have to get to him. I have to -."

"Will!"

Will jerks awake in a cold sweat, gasping heavily, and rolls onto his side as his stomach violently clenches. He coughs, and the hands on him turn human, no claws. Gentle. The heat at his back takes the form of Hannibal's thigh, and as Will shivers and blinks back to awareness, he feels Hannibal's fingers gently carding through his hair.

He jerks, shoving him away. "Don't touch me," he demands, sitting upright in his bed. Hannibal's dark eyes catch the lamplight from his bedside table, and the shadows turn his face angular and sharp. Hannibal immediately stands and steps back, giving Will his space.

Then, he holds a hand out to Will. "Mischa has returned."

Will swallows, wipes a hand over his sweaty face, and nods. He can hear the ceiling creaking above his head, and he shoves the sweat-stained blankets off his legs, wincing when he tries to convince his body to move in his jeans, which are now damp and turning cold.

He doesn't take Hannibal's hand, but puts on his shoes and socks and shoves himself to his feet, marching out of the bedroom and towards the stairs that lead to the roof. Hannibal follows silently.

They reach the door to the roof, and Will stops. He turns, and meets Hannibal's dark eyes, can't read the emotions there. "I dreamed of the Red Dragon again," he says, and Hannibal blinks at him, head tilted. Will sighs. "He called me 'Tėvas'. Do you know what that means?"

Hannibal's eyes widen. Just a fraction, but Will sees it because he's looking very closely, needing to see any slip in Hannibal's demeanor.

"…It means 'Father'," Hannibal replies.

Will bites the inside of his cheek, clucks his tongue against his teeth, and tries not to scream. "How can I hear a word I don't know?" he whispers. "This isn't a story anymore, is it, Doctor Lecter?"

"No, Will," Hannibal replies with a shake of his head. "I don't think it is."

 

 

Will isn't sure what he's supposed to be feeling, at this moment. He's calmer, at least, and doesn't want to think about how much the dream about the Red Dragon settled him, where before it has only brought about fear. He should not look upon a harbinger of the apocalypse with something like affection, and yet -.

The door opens, as Hannibal skirts around him to lead the way, and they step out into the cool night air. Mischa is there. So is Will's daemon.

It's still a dragon. Black as Mischa is, with a crown of gold and spines a mottled mix of gold and red. Mischa is curled up around it, her head under its neck like two purring cats. Will's dragon's horns are large and thick, jutting up like those of a stag and covered at the base by a thick mane of golden frills. Its spines are larger than Mischa's, stronger, and it's larger than she is, and its wings, where Will can see the fine membranes between the bones, are flecked with gold like a starry sky.

He swallows, his fingers curling. Even in Hannibal's presence, it remains a dragon, and Will doesn't know what that means.

Mischa blinks at them, raising her head, and she smiles. Will's daemon rumbles and fixes Will with one large, golden eye.

"Hello, brolis," she greets, happy and soft. To him, it sounds like his own voice, and he wonders if Hannibal can hear hers for what it is. "Draugas."

Will flinches.

"Hello, darling," Hannibal replies. Will glares at him, aggravated at the soft, gentle way he greets her. He should be angry – Hannibal was violated as he was, perhaps even more so at first if one subscribes to the idea that being penetrated makes one more vulnerable. Still, he doesn't seem affected at all, and he didn't suffer the aftereffects like Will did, but he has to feel _something_.

She purrs at them both, and Will's daemon uncoils from her, settling on its side like a dozing cat. She keeps one wing over it, sittings upright, exposing her bright fire stone. Will's fingers curl – he wants to touch it. He wants to paint her in gold.

She smiles at him, and her mind brushes against his, and Will flinches again. "Stop," he growls.

She retreats immediately, blinking at him, and looks at Hannibal as though in question. Hannibal sighs, sobering, and straightens up. "Mischa," he says, "we must talk about what just happened. What you did was incredibly impolite."

 _Understatement_ , Will wants to say. He holds back.

She tilts her head to one side, tongue flicking out to taste the air. Will's fingers curl, remembering the warmth of her scales under his hands. He's shivering in the cold air, coatless as it still hangs in Hannibal's front closet. He wonders if his daemon is as warm as she is.

Hannibal is watching her, both of them speaking without Will in the loop, and then Hannibal frowns. He looks at Will, and then back at Mischa.

"Will," he says, slowly. "I think you should see this."

Mischa's consciousness reaches out, tentatively. Will's jaw clenches, but he allows her in and doesn't shy away.

Immediately he's taken back to the little grassy area outside Hannibal's study window. Through her eyes, he sees his own daemon, the stag calm and black-eyed as it allows her to nuzzle and cover it. He feels sparks of affection, warm in his chest, and winces, rubbing his hand between his collarbones.

Then, a noise draws her – his – attention. It sounds like music, like a song, a clarion call drawing him forward. It's the same song he heard in his dream. Mischa's gaze snaps up, towards the tree line, and Will's shoulders roll, feels her spreading his wings. He can feel the weight of them against his back, the air as it fills them, and he readies to take flight.

The stag's ears flick forward, and it makes a low, rumbling noise. Will shivers, reminded of the Red Dragon.

"Don't go."

Will gasps, his eyes widening. He's never heard his daemon speak before – its voice is not like his own, but deeper. It sounds like the Red Dragon as well, rumbling and low and accented like it learned to speak under Mischa and Hannibal's instruction.

He frowns, eyes fixed on his shoes but not seeing, as Mischa looks back at the stag.

"I must," she tells it. She can feel a pull in her chest, commanding her to take flight and seek out the source of the sound. Will doesn't understand why, nor does she, but it's as primal and heavy an urge as the one to eat, or to hunt. It cannot go ignored or unanswered.

The stag bucks its head, runs around her and lowers its horns so that she cannot take flight. Mischa growls at it, baring her fangs, her wings flared up in a threatening gesture.

"Draugas," Will hears her tell it, "you cannot stop me."

The stag parts its jaws, reveals long fangs. Mischa blinks and steps back. She tastes the air and Will feels the flavor on his own tongue – fire and brimstone and cooking meat. The daemon smells like home. The stag steps towards her, lifts its head, and their muzzles touch.

Will flinches at the sudden heat behind his eyes.

Mischa growls, and shoves the daemon away when the song starts up again. What is that? Will frowns, clenches his jaw when she takes wing, throwing herself from the ground and catching the air currents within the great expanse of her wings.

He hears a roar, and shivers.

Mischa looks back, sees the stag is no longer a stag, but a dragon with a mane of gold and fire set in its mouth. It turns to her, runs along the grass, spreads its wings and flings itself into the air after her. She laughs, surprised, delighted, and shoots a playful burst of flame at its back.

Will's shoulders roll again, his daemon arcs through it, grins at her. It's bigger, stronger, _a worthy mate_ , Mischa's mind whispers to him. Maybe he can hear the song, too. And then it stops, and Will feels an echo of Mischa's confusion, her frustration, before the daemon bites at her wing and she hisses, breathing another jet of flame onto its scales. Fire rolls off of it like water, and then a voice fills her head and Will doesn't know the language.

He finds himself repeating it, aloud.

Hannibal blinks at him, his eyes wide with surprise. Mischa's laughter, her joy, fills the air, and Will feels the air get cold, the wind drops, she freefalls and wheels away but the daemon chases her. Will's stomach gets tight, the foreign and familiar heat in his chest plunging low in something promising and dark as the daemon chases her – chases her and grabs her and -.

 _And_.

"No," Will yells, suddenly and vehemently, and Mischa's vision snaps from his head and reality returns, blaring and bleak. Absent her vision, that picks up things like heat and life, the roof looks too grey, too dark. He's trembling, and he looks to Hannibal, wide-eyed. "No, I -." He runs his hands through his hair. "This is some kind of trick."

His daemon chased her. It _spoke_ to her, when it has never spoken to Will.

Mischa's purr breaks the silence, and Will feels tension and heat behind his eyes. He wants to rub at them but can't get his fingers to move.

Hannibal is still staring at him, his expression unreadable for how utterly surprised it is. Will wants to turn his gaze away from him, away from them both – if he leaves, his daemon must follow, but now he's not sure it will. He's not sure he can rightfully call the animal a daemon anymore.

Hannibal swallows. "She heard his voice," he says, like he knows what Will is thinking. "Dragons speak to other dragons, Will."

Will grits his teeth, shakes his head. "I'm not a dragon."

Mischa huffs a laugh. "Yes, you are," she says gently. Her tail curls around her flank and Will looks at her, takes in her bared teeth and golden eyes. "Even if you don't want to be."

"What was that phrase?" Will asks. "I don't know what that means." And how could his daemon have said it, when Will doesn't even know the language?

Hannibal breathes out. "Back in the days of the Red Dragon," he begins, and Will looks at him, "dragons would exchange gems – trinkets, to impress and earn their beloved's favor."

Will growls at him. "What did he _say_?" he demands.

"'In lieu of gold, I give you myself'," Mischa says before Hannibal can answer. She smiles at Will. "And I accepted him, as he was. I have no need for finery."

Will breathes out, heavy, his lungs seizing in his chest. He looks at his daemon, and the dragon opens its eyes, blinks once at him like a lazy cat, and purrs when Mischa rubs her cheek against its shoulder.

"This isn't possible," Will says, weakly.

Hannibal hums, his expression one of mild amusement like he's waiting for a child to finish his tantrum. "Daemons are an extension of oneself, Will," he says. "You have been so long without a solid foundation, that even your soul reflected it. Now, it appears, it has found the form which best suits you. One might argue that you don't have a dragon simply because you never had the chance."

Will shakes his head again, curling his fingers around the back of his neck. The place he scratched is tender and hot, his skin dry enough to feel like scales. He shivers, and looks at Mischa. "Sesuo," he whispers, and flinches again because he didn't mean to call her that. She blinks at him, frills curling forward to hear him better. "The Cult wants to use you as a vessel to bring the Red Dragon into the world. If you conceive, you're letting them win."

She laughs. "Draugas," she murmurs, fond and gentle. "You're family, now. If the idea of this Cult troubles you so much, we can just leave."

Will freezes, his eyes wide. "…What?"

She fans the air, and Will looks at Hannibal, who appears similarly troubled by her suggestion. "This Cult is local, yes? Then we can become non-local. I miss Italy. We could go there, and leave this behind us."

"That's not the point," Will growls. "Please, Mischa, I'm begging you to see sense. Let us go."

She blinks at him. "You may go," she says, and sounds offended by the implication that he couldn't. "You may take your dragon anywhere you wish, draugas. But what is done cannot be undone. Perhaps you are too proud to claim your child, but I am not."

Will takes a step back, like he was physically pushed. His daemon raises its head, bares its teeth at Will as though daring him to admit that fact – admit that he will fight her, and try and destroy the egg. Openly confess his sin.

But he can't. Something sits heavy on his tongue and he tastes ash in his mouth.

He whirls on Hannibal, glaring at him. "Take me home," he demands.

Hannibal regards him for a moment, before he sighs through his nose, and nods. "Very well."

Will nods back, sharply, and turns towards the door. Hannibal follows, and Will looks back to see that his daemon hasn't moved. It regards him unblinkingly, but thoroughly unimpressed by Will's behavior.

"You coming?" he asks of it.

It huffs, sides heaving, and curls up on its other side, back turned to him. Mischa purrs when one of its wings settles over her back.

Will's upper lip curls, and he glares at it for a moment, before he stifles a growl and turns away. "Suit yourself."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready for some drama?
> 
> I want to say I had the last scenes in this planned out Mizumono style but then Will happened. That’s the kind of drama I mean. 
> 
> New tags!

Hannibal has never minded silences – he finds them peaceful, opportunities for deep thought or quiet contemplation. His favored memories from youth include sitting with Mischa in gardens in France, her warm flank keeping him comfortable at any time of year, while he studied, or people watched. There's something very calming about the blanket of silence that comes with heavy snowfall, sitting on a patch of dry stone that is warmed by a dragon's heart, encased in their wings and necks and watching grey clouds pass by.

The silence of driving Will back home was less than comfortable. Will didn't say a single word, didn't flinch, was as still and quiet as graveyard monuments. He'd only given a soft whisper of thanks when, after dropping him off, Hannibal had given him the number of the towing company and promised he would make arrangements to have the car delivered to Will's house first thing in the morning.

The petty part of him wanted to make a point of mentioning how he was going out of his way so that Will wouldn't have to see him, but politeness stayed his tongue. Will has a lot to think about, and a lot more still to consider. He's going to be a father.

They both are.

He returns home, finding Mischa and Will's daemon curled up together on the roof, still. He gives her a nod when she lifts her head, and her soft, concerned rumble echoes in his mind.

"Draugas is angry with me," she says softly.

"He doesn't understand," Hannibal replies. "And he's afraid."

"Afraid? Why?" She frowns, fanning the air in an anxious gesture, her claws curling up tight under her chest. Beside her, Will's daemon appears to be asleep, breathing heavy and slow. He's probably exhausted.

Hannibal sighs, and sits on his chair inside the greenhouse where the air is slightly warmer. Mischa doesn't come in with him, unwilling to leave her mate, but settles her head just outside the door and fixes Hannibal with one large, golden eye.

"Honestly, my dear, I'm not sure I could pinpoint it to a single thing," Hannibal begins.

She huffs, tasting the air with a flick of her tongue. "You study men's minds and you do not know his?" she asks. If she had the musculature, Hannibal knows she would be rolling her eyes.

He smiles, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees. He's tired, weary from the day's events. Even though he did not suffer the dragons' mating ritual as strongly as Will did, it affected him sharply at first, and even now fissures of satisfaction and contentment run to him through Mischa's bond, making him lethargic and heavy with contentment. He's not sensationalist enough to call it love, but he thinks he could get used to this feeling – it's pleasant, despite the circumstances.

"Men fear what they do not know," Hannibal tells her. "He fears what he is becoming. What his soul is turning into. And he blames us for the change."

Mischa huffs, baring her teeth. "The ocean might blame the moon for its tides. It does not make it any less natural."

"And I agree, but you must understand, darling, there are certain…social expectations that humans conform to," Hannibal says, and hesitates, wondering how best to explain it to her in a way she'll understand. "These events came to him suddenly. Their abruptness is causing him to react more drastically than, say, if he were a natural rider and the courting ritual had been more traditional."

Mischa blinks at him, flicking her tongue out again. "Traditional," she repeats, soft with thoughtfulness. Then, she sighs. "You're going to advise that I give him space."

"I believe it would be good for us to maintain some distance, yes," Hannibal replies with a nod. "Keep it professional, if our paths do cross in the future. There are many different ways this can go, now, but Will's soul remains here, and he will not be able to remain apart from it forever."

At least, Hannibal doesn't think so, as much as he understands about daemons.

Mischa makes a soft, uncomfortable sound. "I'm not trapping him," she says defensively. "He wants to stay. You saw it."

"I know," Hannibal says with a small smile. "And Will knows that too, I'm sure."

"I miss him, brolis," she whispers. "I can feel something in my chest. I want to see him. I want to keep him safe."

"Do you believe he's in danger?" Hannibal asks with a raised eyebrow.

She huffs in frustration, a curl of smoke blossoming from her nostrils. "I don't know," she replies. "He seems…reckless. He might do something rash."

"You're hardly the patron saint of practical thinking," Hannibal replies mildly. He sits back in his chair when she grins at him, and folds one leg over the other. "You suggested we all run away together."

She blinks, and nods. "If draugas is afraid of the Cult, then we shall leave the Cult." She fans the air with her wings, spines rippling along her back. "We've done it before."

"Ah," Hannibal says, tilting his head to one side, "but there are yet certain aspects of our lifestyle that Will cannot understand. Our diets are not conventional, darling."

Mischa lifts her head, abruptly, and snaps her jaws together with a frustrated snarl. "I'm tired of these stupid human rules!" she says, and turns so that she's looking at Hannibal straight. Her muzzle wrinkles, fire shines behind her teeth. "What we can eat and who we can mate with and regulations on our young. I'm tired of it!"

Hannibal is not surprised by her vehemence – she is young, and passionate – but her words startle him. "Do you resent…my custody of you?" he asks, frowning.

She sighs, gentling somewhat. "I love you, brolis," she says fondly, tasting the air. "But I will admit, I find the idea of living independent of humans…alluring. I think I would like to bring my hatchling into a world where its existence is not dependent on whether a human touches it, and then further, depending on the laws of the country, its future is written in stone. If I lay this egg in America, it will be taken into the custody of the Government, no?"

Hannibal sighs, and nods.

"I do not accept that," Mischa says sharply. She's growling again.

"Will believes that the hatchling you conceived with his daemon will be the Red Dragon incarnate," Hannibal says. "So, too, do these Cultists believe it. If we are to ensure a bright future for your child, then you are right – we must leave."

She blinks, and sighs. "But he will not follow," she says.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and shakes his head. "No," he replies, and isn't sure why his chest suddenly feels very tight, his heart heavy and cold with sadness at the thought. It doesn't feel like Mischa's emotions. "He will not."

She hums, the sound pensive. Hannibal dares not ask what she's thinking.

 

 

Will's car arrives just past nine in the morning. The tow truck man tells him the bill was paid, and normally Will would bristle at Hannibal doing so, except it's his damn fault in the first place and it means the guy leaves sooner rather than later, and Will appreciates being left alone.

His dreams had been chaotic and dark, swirling patterns of black blood and dark gold, like it had been burning. The fountain ran dry, and the Cathedral started to crumble.

He drives to Jack's office and storms in, knocking and opening the door in the same motion. Jack is by himself in his office, and looks at Will with wide eyes.

"Will," he says, standing. He frowns, eyes naturally dropping to the place at Will's side where his daemon should be. He opens his mouth, but Will speaks before he can say anything else;

"We need a list of all the caretakers and employees at Saint Anne's," he says, all in one breath. "The Cult is going to try and resurrect the Red Dragon during the lunar eclipse."

Jack frowns, head tilted to one side, and he sits back down in a careful, deliberate motion. Will can't sit still – his house had seemed too big, too empty, and too enclosed at the same time. This office, too, feels cramped and oppressive. He wants to pace, wants to spread wings and run and _run_ until his knees give out from exhaustion. It's not energy, it's mania at this point. He'll burn every Cathedral to the fucking ground if he has to.

Jack regards him, and then nods to the chairs on the other side of his desk. Will stops, breathing heavily, and throws himself into the middle chair. His knees spread out, his fingers drum against the armrests. He can't sit still. He's sweating, heat in his chest making him feel feverish and weak.

Jack sits forward, too patient, too distant. Doesn't he understand how important this is? "I can get that list," he says, slowly, "if you tell me what brought you to that conclusion."

Will bares his teeth, jerks his head to one side. His mouth feels dry, his jaw aches like new teeth are growing, like they did when Will had his wisdom teeth removed when he was younger. One of them was impacted and his mouth and jaw had been swollen and bruised for a week. This feels like that.

"I visited Doctor Lecter yesterday," he says, wincing. His legs jog up and down and he forces his hands against his thighs, trying to keep them from moving. It doesn't help. It feels like chains. "We believe his dragon is going to be used as a sacrifice to bring the Red Dragon into the world. The only place locally that's old enough is Saint Anne's."

Jack presses his lips together, and nods. "So they'd need access, after hours," he says.

Will nods. "During the eclipse," he repeats. "The lunar eclipse. It's the next significant date in the draconian calendar. That's when we think they'll strike."

Jack watches him like he's a wild animal that's just been let off the leash. He might run. He might fight. "Are you feeling alright, Will?"

"No," Will growls, upper lip curling back.

"Where's your dog?"

Will flinches, meets Jack's dark eyes. "Does it matter?" he asks coldly. It doesn't matter – it shouldn't matter, except Will's heart is pounding and he feels like he's going to be sick and there's this _tug_ , this pull that feels like the Cathedral song and it's telling him to go back to Baltimore, to go to Hannibal, to curl up under Mischa's wing and let her purr for him.

He swallows harshly enough that it stings his dry throat.

Jack looks unconvinced. Unimpressed. He sighs and sits back. "We got some more information on Randall Tier," he says. Will blinks, and frowns. "He worked at the dragon exhibit in the Smithsonian. Until about two months ago." He pauses. "He stopped paying his rent, but his financial records show him making cash withdrawals in regular weekly intervals. I figure he's been staying at a secondary location, where this Cult is holding their victims. They might be living there, too."

Will nods, rubbing at his jaw. "Any idea where that might be?" he asks. "What kind of place requires weekly rent?"

"There are hotels that charge weekly, and apartments for the same," Jack says. "I'm having tech pull a list with their prices. If we can find where all the members are staying, we can get them before they make it to the eclipse."

Will tenses. "I don't think we have that kind of time, Jack," he says. But that is good news – if they can find their hideout, Will can smoke them all out like foxes from their holes, drive them into the sunlight, rip out their throats with his teeth -.

He flinches at the thoughts.

Jack notices. "Seriously, Will, are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine!" Will says, standing up, unable to stay still for a second longer. He wants to run. He wants to _fly_. He wants to see the world engulfed in flames.

He stops, runs his hands through his hair, and lets out a weak sound. He turns to Jack, who's watching him with wide eyes, like Will is a ticking time bomb just past the minute mark. Will lets out a weak whine, scratching the back of his neck hard enough that it stings. "I've just…. I haven't been sleeping well," he admits. "I want this case to be over. I'm fucking terrified, Jack."

"Of what?"

"You don't know the stories," Will says, shaking his head. "This is so much bigger than a bunch of whack-jobs on a mission. This is so much… _more_."

"Will, what's going on?"

Will shakes his head again, vehemently. He thinks he can hear, distantly, the sound of music. That song again. What is that?

He has to know, and he can think of only one person that might be able to answer. He grits his teeth and rolls his shoulders.

"I have to go," he says. Jack stands, calling for him, but Will doesn't halt. He flees the building and runs to his car, the air burning his lungs with the promise of a coming storm. There's a strong wind blowing at his back, like the elements are urging him on.

He gets in the car and peels out of the parking lot, past Jack as he stops at the curb, still yelling for him. Will doesn't look back.

 

 

Hannibal will admit, he's distracted. Mischa isn't in his study with him, as the patients Hannibal has scheduled for today find her presence unsettling and threatening. Sheep, all of them. He listens to them whine and drone and wonders if, perhaps, Mischa is right.

It's time for a change.

Dragons incubate their eggs for a month before laying them, but they are still able to fly, and fight, up to the point of laying their eggs. If Hannibal were to pack up his life and take Mischa somewhere, she could make the journey without any problems.

He escorts his last patient of the morning out, knowing he has two hours before his next session. The door closes, and then he halts when he hears a rough, off-beat pounding on the door.

He turns towards it, eyebrows raised, and opens the door.

Will is there, dusting his coat off. He looks ruffled and unsteady, sweat darkening his shirt under his arms and around his neck. Hannibal tilts his head to one side, and Will looks at him, breathes out, and shoves his way into the study.

"Please," Hannibal says mildly, "come in."

"What was that song?" Will says, whirling on him as he deposits his coat on the back of Hannibal's patient chair. Hannibal blinks, brow furrowing. "I know you heard it. You felt it, too. What was it?"

Hannibal closes the door, and sighs, putting his hands in his pockets and walking slowly to the other chair. He doesn't sit, since Will isn't sitting either. Hannibal recognizes the signs of restlessness in him – it's common in dragon riders when their beasts haven't been able to fly for a while.

"I don't know," he says, and Will huffs a frustrated breath. "I've never heard it before."

"But you felt it, right?" Will asks. He puts a hand to his chest, fingertips tapping along his collarbone.

Hannibal nods. "I believe the language was Welsh," he says mildly.

Will frowns. "Welsh?" he repeats.

Hannibal nods again, sighing through his nose.

"Why Welsh?" Will asks.

"I don't know, Will," Hannibal replies. Will's upper lip curls back and Hannibal shrugs, helplessly. "I swear, I'm not being deliberately obtuse. I do not know the language." He pauses, and adds; "Perhaps it has more to do with the Cult, than with dragons."

Will frowns.

"Our native tongue is special to us," Hannibal murmurs. "Mischa gives us nicknames in Lithuanian, as that is our mother tongue. When the Red Dragon speaks to you, he uses the language of his mother." Will growls, wincing at the reminder. "So, too, does your daemon."

"Where is he?" Will demands.

Hannibal smiles. "With her," he replies. "They are both still at my home, last I checked."

"Last you _checked_?" Will repeats, scathing. Hannibal tilts his head to one side at the tone of voice.

He rakes his gaze over Will, takes in his nervously clenching fingers, his white knuckles, the sweat on his brow and the flecks of gold in his eyes. "Mischa won't let anything happen to him," he says, hoping he comes across as reassuring.

Will growls, clenches his jaw, and looks away. His eyes alight on the second level where Mischa normally perches. "Right," he says.

Hannibal sighs, a flash of impatience coloring his expression. "I want to remind you, Will, that you came to me," he says. Will winces. "I am more than happy to give you space, and time, if that is what you need. But you cannot keep coming to my home and my office and then get angry when I'm there."

Will blinks, and his gaze snaps to Hannibal, his eyes wide. "That's not -." He stops, swallows, and looks down at his hands. His fingers curl and he holds them in front of him like he's balancing something delicate in his grip.

"Your daemon is not being held hostage," Hannibal continues. "It is not my fault that he wants to be in the company of his mate."

Will freezes, and when he meets Hannibal's gaze, his expression is so abruptly cold that Hannibal, despite himself, feels unsettled. Still, he doesn't drop his eyes, holds contact there like a challenge. Will clenches his jaw, and his nostrils flare when he breathes out, heavy, through his teeth.

He nods, once, sharply. "You're right," he murmurs. He grabs his coat and folds it against his stomach. "I'm sorry to disturb you. Have a good day, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal frowns, and watches Will leave. It takes all his strength not to give chase.

 

 

Will's fingers clench around the steering wheel, his jaw aching as he grinds his teeth together. His head is full of that song, and it sounds like it grows louder and stronger the closer he gets to Hannibal's home. Underneath it, like a current of sound too base to hear unless one is paying attention to it, he hears the Red Dragon's voice;

"This event horizon happens more often than you might think, tėvas. This anniversary just happened to spawn the perfect circumstances."

One thing is for certain: he cannot allow this to continue. He can't let this get any worse. He will find the Cult, slaughter them all if he has to, and let the pieces fall where they may, but he knows this: if whatever ritual they have prepared is not completed, then the Red Dragon will not rise. Mischa's egg will just be like any other, and he can wash his hands of the whole thing, recluse himself somewhere in the mountains and forget the entire ordeal.

He cannot do that yet. But he will. When it's all over.

He parks outside of Hannibal's house, and does not see or sense Mischa nearby. Perhaps she is hunting. He gets out of the car and circles to the back garden.

He looks up, and cups his hands to yell; "Come down, if you're there."

His daemon's horns come into view first, regal and arching up like a proud stag. The dragon blinks at him, and rumbles in greeting, head tilted to one side. Will's heart is pounding. He feels the wind curling around his neck, soothing the scratches there. He feels it tickling under his arms, burning across his knuckles.

His daemon stands, and jumps down to land with a heavy thud in front of him. Will smiles, shaky, his head hot and eyes blurring with tears.

"Hey," he says, and holds his hands out. The daemon blinks at him, nostrils flared around plumes of smoke. The fire stone in its chest is glowing a dull orange, and it blinks golden eyes at him, but walks forward until Will can cup its cheeks.

Will sighs, resting their foreheads together. "Will you speak to me?"

The daemon rumbles, but no words come. Will's throat is tight, and he clenches his eyes shut, curls his fingers into the daemon's golden mane. His daemon lets out another sound, unsettled, low like a growl of threat.

Will trembles, his hands sliding down his daemon's face, its neck, until his hands touch the fire stone, which pulses with warmth against his palms. He swallows harshly and opens his eyes, pulling back.

The daemon bucks its head, rearing up like a startled horse. Its wings flare. "It's alright," Will whispers. He holds one hand out, trying to calm it, and with his other he slowly, carefully, reaches for the gun at his hip. "This won't hurt. I promise. It won't hurt."

The daemon snarls at him, fangs bared and fire glowing in its mouth. Its tail thrashes and Will grits his teeth, closes his eyes. He pulls his gun out and shoots. Once, twice. He opens his eyes – in the head, right through the crown. Gold shines in the mess of burned and matted scales, the wound open and staring like a third eye.

Two more, straight through the fire stone. His daemon collapses and Will falls to his knees, dropping his gun as his chest explodes with heat. His head burns like he's just been beaten to within an inch of his life. Tears obscure his vision and he sobs, putting his head in his hands as the fire stone cools, darkens to the color of galvanized copper.

He moans, coughing, and tastes blood in his mouth. It flows from behind his teeth and his mouth suddenly isn't dry anymore. The desperate burning in his shoulders, the ache to fly, fades away. He coughs again, shoving his hands to his chest like he's trying to forcibly push his ribs back into place. It hurts, _God_ , does it hurt, and he looks at his daemon's wide, black-staring eyes, and the next sound he makes isn't even human.

It's animal-raw, so full of pain Will doesn't even recognize it. There's a roar in his head like the coming of an avalanche, and he forces himself, forces himself to watch as the dragon starts to fade away. With the human host remaining alive, the daemon will disintegrate and become nothing more than a stain of blood and gold on the ground. The daemons in the hotel only remained whole because their humans were killed shortly after. Because they lost the will to live.

Will wants to live.

But it hurts.

He collapses over his daemon's head, pets through the frills of gold around its horns. "I had to," he tells it, and paints a smile onto its cheek with blood from his own mouth. "You know I had to, didn't you?"

This is the price. This is the sacrifice. Will cannot let his agency, his thoughts, be taken from him again. Even at the cost of his own soul.

The daemon starts to get cold under his hands, and Will shoves himself to his feet, unsteady, hardly able to see. He grabs his gun, holsters it, and coughs more blood into his hands. He will heal – he knows he will heal. He has to.

He tries to take a step, and falls to his knees again, sobbing at the ache in his chest as it grows thorns. Like the recession of shock, sensation kicks in, something raw and blistering and Will can't handle it – he can't. He tries, he can't do anything about it now, and he wonders half-mad if this classifies as suicide or murder.

He laughs. He laughs and cries and scratches the nape of his neck until it bleeds. He wants to scream but there's too much blood in his mouth. He's gutted from the inside, and he wants to throw up, he wants to wither away to nothingness. But he can't – there's still too much work to be done. He laughs until the sun starts to set, the air gets oppressively humid and almost cold, and he doesn't hear Mischa return.

 

 

That's how Hannibal finds him – shaking and wretched with grief, sweat and blood on his face and hands, staining he collar of his shirt where he scratched his neck raw. Will looks up, tears in his eyes, and Hannibal meets his dark gaze.

The daemon is little more than a stain of ash in the shape of a dragon, now. The fractured pieces of its fire stone remain, orange-gold and dull like polished glass.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and holds his hand out to Will. Will trembles, and takes it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *says I won't make y'all wait until July to update*  
> *gets severe writer's block and does it anyway*  
> I'm so sorry guys! It's been crazy on my end, and the words just would not come for this, but I managed. I wanted this to be the last chapter but, in typical Will and Hannibal fashion, they had other ideas.

They are both silent as Hannibal leads Will back into his home. They enter and remain within the kitchen. Wordlessly, Hannibal takes two glasses from his cabinet and opens a bottle of chilled white wine – sweet and crisp, and lacking any sour aftertaste or overly-pungent aroma – and pours the glasses to half-full.

Will stands like a statue in the middle of the open area of the kitchen, bowed head framed by the single piece of art Hannibal has mounted on the back wall. When Hannibal holds the glass out, he lifts his eyes, and there's still gold in them. Hannibal wonders if he can feel it, like an itch behind his eyelids, unable to be scratched properly. If that is why he blinks, once, twice, rapidly, before he licks his lips and comes to the island, takes the glass by the stem and drinks Hannibal's offering.

When he sets the glass down, there's a swirl of red within it, dusty-pale pink like a rose blush. Hannibal's eyes fall to it, then rise to Will's. Their gazes meet, lock, steady as a lighthouse on the shore. Hannibal isn't sure which one of them is the boat, which one the harbor.

He takes a drink of wine and sets it down, breathes out. This must be handled very delicately, but it is a scenario he has never encountered. In all his years, he has never even heard of someone surviving their own daemon, much less someone who killed it themselves.

A memory flickers, half-formed and long-forgotten, of a terrified man, and a rat in Hannibal's hands. Hannibal had broken that man from the foundations, before discovering Mischa was still alive in his home. Will does not look like a broken man, but whether that is because his foundation remains solid, or the fact that the shell Hannibal is looking at is just that, a shell, hiding a hollow nothingness within, he cannot say just yet.

"You killed your daemon," he finally says, when Will merely blinks at him, otherwise unmoving.

Will presses his lips together, and nods. "I did." For the life of him, Hannibal cannot pinpoint the exact emotion in Will's voice. Perhaps there are too many, swirling together like paint to form a dark off-black shade. Perhaps there is no emotion at all.

He straightens. "Will you tell me why?"

"Will you ask?" Will returns, and takes another drink of wine, swallowing his own blood with the next mouthful. He doesn't appear injured, but the way he wounded himself was violent, as violent as Will could have possibly made it. He likely didn't have the strength for anything more intimate or slower than a gunshot, but the overkill was…staggering. Hannibal counted at least four bullet casings in the grass.

Hannibal sighs through his nose, looks down at their wine glasses. The chill of the wine is making the bowls of the glasses condense, slick with water. He takes a drink of his own, and sets it down again. "Why did you kill your daemon, Will?"

"I had to," Will replies.

Hannibal cannot help the frustrated sound he lets out. He meets Will's gaze again, shoulders tense and lips pressed into a thin line. "You destroyed your soul," he says.

Will lifts his chin as though in challenge. His eyes are marred with enough gold to turn them green around the edges, and his upper lip curls in a brief, off-kilter snarl. "Just the part that you could influence," he replies. "That _she_ could -."

Hannibal growls, his fingers curling against the countertop when he braces his hands there. "When will you admit that -?" He stops, swallowing back the harsh words before he can give them voice. Will is deliberately baiting him, he knows that. One of them has to remain calm, but Will makes him feel decidedly _not_ calm, not in the slightest. It's too aggravated to be compassion, too sharp to be animosity. Hannibal simply _feels_ , when he looks at Will, and he's at a loss as to why.

But Will's eyes flash. He catches the words Hannibal won't say. He steps up to the counter, prowling closer, and sets his hands on the island in a mimic of Hannibal's posture. "Admit _what_ , Doctor Lecter?" he says, whisper-quiet, purring like a hunting cat. Like a dragon. "Admit that there was a part of me, however small, that saw the opportunity for a family and took it? Admit that when I touched Mischa for the first time, the fire in her felt like it woke something in me? Admit that I'm no longer afraid of the Red Dragon – that it settles me when he calls me 'Father'?"

Hannibal blinks.

"I will admit to _nothing_ ," Will says, hissing the word. "And now, you can't mess with that part of me anymore. My stag, my dragon, it's gone."

"So that's what this is," Hannibal says, unable to stop the venom on his tongue showing in his voice. "You would rather kill yourself than admit…what, weakness?"

"Do you call it weakness?" Will returns. He's steady, steadier than Hannibal expected him to be. He has known Will as this shaken, unsure thing for so long. To see him so focused, whether it's an affect he's putting on for the sake of his pride or not, is unsettling. Even with red cheeks and tear tracks down his face, Will regards him like a sniper ready for the order to shoot.

Hannibal will not shy from the crosshairs. "All I have tried to do is help you, Will," he says instead. "It is not my fault that a piece of you reacted to me, or to Mischa. It is not our fault that your daemon decided to abandon you."

Will flinches, just a little. His jaw tightens, and his eyes drop for the briefest moment. Hannibal pauses, and takes in a slow breath.

"That's the real betrayal, isn't it?" he asks. "Not that you were violated, but that you cannot blame me for your violation."

"You make me sound childish," Will replies, terse and low.

"Because you are behaving like a child," Hannibal says. Will's jaw clenches again and when he meets his eyes, they're dark and angry. "And through your behavior, you are threatening the most important thing in my life. I will not let you harm Mischa – you've already taken away her mate. She's going to be devastated."

"She'll live," Will says. "If I can, she can."

Hannibal huffs, straightening and taking another drink of his wine. Will mimics him, down to the pace, the timing of their swallows, the gentle tap of glass against granite as they set their glasses down again.

"So that's it, then," Hannibal murmurs after another long, long silence. Will tilts his head to one side, bites his lower lip, and rolls his shoulders. "I don't think I'm out of place in asking that you stop taking liberties with visiting me. If it's for a case, I ask that you send Jack. I don't think either of us will benefit from remaining friends."

Will laughs. It's an angry, hurt sound. "Were we ever friends?"

"I wanted to think so," Hannibal replies, seeing the opportunity to wound and taking it. Will does, in fact, flinch at that admission, straightening up so his hands are no longer on the island. "I mistook our relationship as beneficial, where you might learn, and adapt, and perhaps Mischa and I could help make this world a little safer. But…" He shakes his head. "I don't think I can allow it anymore."

"Suit yourself," Will growls. He downs the rest of his wine and sets the glass down, rolling his shoulders again. "Jack thinks he might have found where the Cult is hiding out, in preparation for the ritual. We're going to raid it later this week, and hopefully, stop them in their tracks. If all goes well, you and I never have to see each other again."

Hannibal nods. "Good," he replies. The sniper has been given the order to stand down. Hannibal sees the fight draining from Will, loosening his shoulders and making his fingers curl and twitch at his sides. This is much more like the Will Hannibal knows, or wanted to know.

"I'll see myself out. Have a good night, Doctor Lecter."

"And you, Agent Graham," Hannibal says.

Will blinks, frowning at the title, but doesn't comment. His lips part like he wants to say something else, but pride, or arrogance, or a combination of the two, stays his tongue. He nods once more and turns, exiting the kitchen and going down the hallway. Hannibal remains in the kitchen, and waits until he hears the door close.

He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, and shakes his head to clear it from the smoke of Will's dismissal. Part of him, still, feels like he should give chase. Will is surely in no condition to drive. But he doesn't. He will let Will leave, and remain apart from him. He must explain to Mischa what happened. She will be distraught, to say the least, and Hannibal has no idea how he will explain to her what Will has done. How to make her understand.

He finishes his wine and returns the bottle to the fridge, and goes to his bedroom. Mischa is out flying, hunting for herself, and he knows not when she will return. He should stay up for her, but he's weary to the bone as though he has just gone through intense physical labor. He hasn't felt this tired since the night after he dealt with his sister's killers, and that was so long ago. He was a vastly different creature then.

 

 

Will drives to his home on auto-pilot. He cannot afford to think, can't allow himself to remember the events of that night. He can't let himself think about how it felt, to have such a large part of himself simply fade away.

Of course, losing a daemon will not kill a person. A person can survive with half a soul, but it opens one up to other dependencies. Most drug addicts or abuse victims are those with damaged or lost daemons, seeking anything to fill the void of their constant companion being suddenly gone.

He gets to his home and opens the door to his car, and stands at the door for a full five seconds before he realizes that the dog is not going to climb out of it. He swallows, slamming it with a loud creak, and stalks inside, choking on his breath. He barely makes it inside, and collapses onto the chair at the little table by the window, his head in his hands.

"Breathe," he tells himself, but finds it so hard to obey. "Just breathe. Come on."

To try and properly encapsulate his feelings, to address them, is impossible. He knows that, with the wounds so raw. He tries not to think about the look in Hannibal's eyes when he mentioned Mischa, the fact that Will felt it in his own chest, betrayal and anger and outrage in equal measure. He knows, objectively, he shouldn’t be angry at Hannibal's reaction – they were barely friends, and definitely not more than that – but it still feels like such a bitter aftertaste, knowing that Hannibal's first thought was not how Will was doing, but how his dragon was going to react.

But he had to – he _had_ to. Hannibal and Mischa cannot influence him anymore, without his daemon. They can't make Will do things – _but they didn't make you, they didn't_ – and his judgement will no longer be clouded by paternal instinct or distraction – _but it will, it will_ – and he is once again free to navigate the world as he pleases.

And yet, the world is so small.

He frowns, lifting his head when he hears the low, soft whoosh of air being disturbed. He looks outside, and swallows when he sees the familiar golden crown, brilliant golden eyes as Mischa lands in his front yard. He stands, swallowing harshly, and goes outside to greet her.

She meets his gaze, and Will is prepared for her wrath, for her outrage. He is prepared for her to threaten him, maybe to try and burn him alive for hurting his daemon. He goes, and she walks up to him, tail swishing along the ground like an agitated cat, wings fanning the air to kick up the warm, humid breeze towards Will.

There's blood around her muzzle and on her claws, and when she bares her teeth, they are red.

They come to a stop a foot from each other, close enough that she can extend her muzzle and place it in Will's outstretched hands. As soon as they touch, her consciousness brushes up against him. Will shivers, lips parting. He smears his fingers through the blood on her jaws and paints her smile wide.

"Hello, draugas," she whispers.

"Hello," he replies.

She blinks at him, eyelids clicking. Will feels her settle up against his mind like a purring cat. He can taste her sadness like bitter cherries, and swallows again. "Brolis showed me what happened," she says. "You killed your dragon."

"He said you'd be upset," Will replies.

She hums, settling on all fours, tail swooping forward to curl around her legs. "And you?" she asks. "How are you feeling?"

Will huffs a laugh. "Do you care?"

"Of course I care," Mischa says, flicking her tongue out to taste the air, taste Will's exposed forearms. "You are very important to me."

Will swallows. "Am I?"

"Yes," Mischa says. "There are many things I do not understand, but the loss of something physical does not mean the loss of that thing. The air inside a broken jar still remains. When the sun sets, it is merely lighting up another place, but it is still there."

Will shivers, his throat too tight to speak. He looks away from her, unable to meet her eyes. "You are much more understanding that your master is."

She grins at him. "I think there are things that dragons will not understand about humans, just as humans will not understand about dragons. No matter how long we exist together. But your presence lives on, even if I cannot touch it. Even if this child is the only one I bear, it is still mine, and it is still yours."

Will swallows. "And I suppose I cannot convince you to get rid of it, still," he whispers. She rumbles, and blinks at him again, but still smiles.

"I will not say I am not saddened by your actions," she says. "I do miss him, even now. I feel that he is not there – your dragon. But I am also trying to understand." She pauses, and Will feels her mental presence nudge at his mind, trying to root out the emotions behind his behavior. Will doesn't know how to fight her off, and he finds he doesn't want to. Maybe sharing a burden like this is the only way to relieve it.

So, he lets her in. Like a drug addict. He allows her to soak in his feelings of betrayal, his anger towards her and Hannibal – maybe misguided, possibly misplaced, but no less raw and powerful for it. She accepts it like an offering of food, bathes in the red-marred color of his feelings.

She blinks, and hums, tongue flicking out again. Will has to admit he feels lighter when her presence withdraws, and his fingers tighten on her cheeks, not wanting her to leave.

She crawls closer, arching her neck so her shoulder comes to a stop by Will, and one of her wings wraps around him, settling lightly against his back. He gasps, collapsing under the heat of her, and she purrs, wrapping her tail tight around his legs and resting her head on his shoulder.

"You can be safe with us," Mischa whispers. Will closes his eyes, bows his head to rest his forehead against her cheek. "Brolis and I will protect you."

"I don't want that," Will replies, and wonders even as he says it, if it's a lie.

She sighs. "I don't want to lose you, draugas," she whispers.

Will flinches at the sincerity in her voice. He wants to take his hands away, but can't. Her fire stone lights up the backs of his eyelids and he opens his eyes, sets his gaze on it, the bright orange glow of it. The warmth touches his exposed forearms and he wants to touch it, but forces himself not to.

"We can't be friends, Mischa," Will says. "I can't -. And Hannibal -."

She huffs. "He is angry," she replies. "Both of you have that problem. I think it is common in dragon riders."

"I'm not a rider."

"Well, not anymore," she says, blinking at him. Will sighs. "But you can be."

Will frowns. "How?"

"This hatchling will know your blood," she says. "Know your touch. It is very likely that he will hatch for you."

Will flinches. "But if he's the Red Dragon…"

"We can fly away," Mischa says. "Far away. We don't have to worry about the Cult if we are not where they are."

Will swallows. Dangerous thoughts – and ones he cannot afford to entertain.

He stands, pushing her wing off him, and lets go of her face. "Go home," he tells her, and tries to say it as firmly as possible. "Go home and don't come back. Don't visit me." He says it again, and ignores the wounded sound she makes, and tries not to think about whether he's protecting her by doing this, or pretending that he is. That he cares – does he? Of course he does. But he shouldn't. Not after everything.

He flees into his house, and shuts off all the lights, closes the curtains, and goes to his bedroom. He doesn't hear her leave.

 

 

"Will, good, you're here."

Will frowns, waylaid by Jack as he enters the BSU building days later, answering Jack's summons. Jack gestures for him to come over and Will goes, noticing that Jack once again drops his gaze to Will's feet, looking for his dog, and frowns when he doesn't see it. He doesn't ask about it, but leads Will towards the interrogation rooms.

"What's going on?" he asks. There's a somber air to the whole building, something oppressive and heavy weighing everyone down.

"We raided the apartment building last night," Jack says. "There was a gunfight. We lost Harrison and Montey." Will's brain pings in vague recognition – names of those on one of the FBI's SWAT teams.

"Wait, you went to arrest the Cult without me?" Will says, stopping in his tracks and forcing Jack to follow suit. Jack turns and regards him impassively. "Why would you do that?"

"Not to make it too obvious, Will, but you haven't exactly been yourself lately," Jack says sharply, and Will wants to snarl the question of whose fault that is. After all, it was Jack who introduced him to Hannibal, the one who opened the door and allowed him and Mischa to step through.

Jack doesn't wait for him to reply. He turns and keeps walking, forcing Will to follow. "We arrested the leader," he says.

Will's eyes widen, and he quickens his pace to fall into step beside Jack. "Who is it?"

"Francis Dolarhyde," Jack says. "His apartment was covered in poems and paintings of the Red Dragon, he kept spouting gibberish when we arrested him."

"You took him alive?" Will asks.

Jack nods. "We need a confession, or reasonable cause, to put posts out on Saint Anne's during the eclipse. All the other members either fled or were gunned down. He's the only survivor from the raid, but there are others that can carry out his work. We have to operate under the assumption that the ritual will proceed as planned."

"So you want me to interview him?" Will asks.

Jack nods, and comes to a stop at the door to the interrogation room. Will presses his lips together, and looks in.

He freezes. "You invited Doctor Lecter," he says.

Jack nods. "He might pick up on things you won't."

"Won't," Will repeats, spitting the word, and glares at Jack. "Or can't?"

"Either," Jack replies. "Both."

"I can't go in there with him," Will says quietly, stepping away from the door. He shakes his head and Jack raises his eyebrows. "I can't."

"Will," Jack begins, and stops. He looks down at Will's feet again. "Where's your dog?"

Will swallows. "I'm not doing this."

"You must, Will. You have to."

Will rubs his hands over his face, up through his hair. He feels…empty. That's the only way to describe it, and he can't help feeling that he would feel better in Hannibal's presence – or Mischa's. Like a Goddamn drug addict, he keeps craving more. The mindset of a dragon is so clear, and sharing burdens with one is such a relief, but he can't – he _can't_ – he -.

"Jack, please," Will whispers. "Don't make me do this."

The door opens, and Hannibal appears in the doorway. His eyes meet Will's, and his demeanor is so cold, so unrelenting, Will's fingers curl and he wishes he was still curled up under Mischa's wing, able to feel the heat from her fire stone. He ducks his head and Hannibal pauses, and then looks at Jack, and closes the door behind him.

"I apologize, Jack," he says coolly. "I didn't realize we were waiting for Will."

"It's no trouble," Jack says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

They stand in awkward silence for a moment longer, then Hannibal says; "It's good that you're here, Will." Will frowns at him. "I believe this man will be more open to speaking with you."

Will swallows, and doesn't want to ask why. He already knows.

Jack nods, determining the matter settled, and goes into the observation room next door. Will's shoulders tense, he rubs his hands over his jaw and up through his hair.

"Now who is coming to whose home and office?" he asks.

Hannibal tilts his head to one side.

"Mischa visited me," Will says. "A few days ago."

He nods. "I am aware." He pauses. "Perhaps it was egocentric of me to assume her desires and my own where the same, this time. She has a great deal of affection for you, even now."

"You should leave," Will says. "Take her and go."

"I will not," Hannibal replies. "Not until I hear what this man has to say."

Will stifles the urge to growl. He swallows, lifts his chin, and smiles wide enough to show his teeth. "Fine." He pushes past Hannibal and opens the door.

Dolarhyde is tall, Will can tell that even from where he's sitting, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, his hands bolted to the table. He has short hair, and a marked scar on his upper lip, and Will can see the upper edge of a tattoo on the back of his neck. His eyes snap up, and Will pauses, blinking when he sees that the man has golden eyes, like he's wearing contacts.

Then, he smiles, and shows dragon's teeth, like Randall's.

"Father of the Great Red Dragon!" he greets, crowing the title loud enough to make Will flinch. "Hail!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I wanted to say a few things.  
> firstly, I'm so sorry for the delay in this story.   
> secondly, I realized, as I was trying to write it, that I allowed myself to change my intended ending a few chapters back - too far back to retcon, and too far back to fix. so this chapter and the next one will be the ending we end up with. when I post it, I'll explain what I meant to do with it and maybe it'll offer some insight as to what happened with this story.  
> so here we have it! unlucky number 13, haha. I'm sorry in advance for any feels.

"Father of the Great Red Dragon! Hail!"

Will flinches, looking over his shoulder to the wide mirror separating the interrogation and the observation rooms. Jack had said Francis was spouting gibberish when he was arrested – perhaps less gibberish, and something Jack simply wouldn't have a hope of understanding.

He looks to Hannibal, who appears almost amused by Francis' demeanor. Indeed, the man looks overjoyed at seeing Will, like Will is an old friend from college who suddenly came to town. Francis sits forward as Will approaches, and he comes to a stop behind a chair. He won't sit – he can't. Not yet.

"Francis," he greets warmly. Perhaps, if he plays this just right, he will be able to get a confession out of the man and flee the room before Jack gets it in his head to ask any too-close-to-call questions. All they need is a confession, and reasonable cause. "It's nice to meet you."

"And you," Francis replies, smiling widely, off-kilter to show his dragon-like teeth. His eyes rake Will up and down, and then slide to Hannibal. He shifts his weight, sits back in his chair, the picture of lax pride. "The Red Dragon and his mate. I never thought I'd see the day."

Will frowns, cocking his head to one side, and does his best to ignore the first part of that statement. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks.

Francis nods.

"I've been given to understand you've waived your rights, and refused an attorney."

"Yes," Francis says, smiling again. "I don't need one. I haven't done anything wrong."

Will's eyebrows rise. "You're being charged with murder and conspiracy," he says mildly. "That doesn't worry you at all?"

Francis shakes his head. "I haven't killed anyone," he says lightly, and Will wonders if that is, in fact, the case. Like Manson. He could not possibly say for sure, not yet.

He decides, in that moment, to try and play along. He slides the chair back and takes a seat, pushes himself close to Hannibal so that they would appear, to Francis, as friendly as they should. Francis' smile widens and he sets his hands on the table in front of him, fingers laced.

"The Red Dragon will rise again," Will says, and Francis' eyes shine when he nods. Will sits forward, like he's eager for more information. "I've heard him talking to me. Seen him in my dreams."

Francis sighs. "Isn't he beautiful?"

"Yes," Will replies, his voice hoarse, for that much he cannot deny.

Francis looks to Hannibal. "And you, Doctor Lecter?" he asks, and Will hopes that he knows Hannibal's name because of previous interrogation. The idea that they've been watching Will and Hannibal unsettles him greatly. "Have you seen him?"

Hannibal shakes his head. "I can't say I have," he replies. "I have not been afforded the privilege."

Francis blinks at Hannibal, his brows coming together in a severe line. Will doesn't like the look in his eyes at all.

Francis' expression darkens, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, fingers flexing. "I think I've said enough, here," he says.

"Wait," Will replies, leaning forward. "Please. Talk to me."

"No," Francis bites out, cold and harsh suddenly. "I have nothing more to say."

Will opens his mouth to protest, but he hears a buzzing that is Jack trying to get his attention. He growls, shakes his head once, sharply, and stands. Hannibal follows suit and they both go to the door and out into the hallway.

Jack meets them, his expression as thunderous as Francis'. "What the Hell was that?" he demands, gesturing towards the interrogation room.

"I'm not sure," Will replies.

"I can't imagine how what I said could have enraged him so much," Hannibal adds mildly.

Will looks to him, tries to measure his expression, but Hannibal's face is impassive, and gives nothing away. He turns back to Jack. "Let me talk to him," he says. "Alone."

Jack presses his lips together, and nods. "Doctor Lecter, come with me," he says.

Will bristles at the command, but doesn't voice his protest. He doesn't need Hannibal or Jack _babysitting_ him, for God's sake. Hannibal sends him a look, as though Will is a time bomb with a counter set below the minute mark, like he could explode at any time and there isn't enough time to get away.

Will hopes the look he sends back is resolute, determined. Challenging. He catches Hannibal's faint smile, and turns to go back into the interrogation room.

Francis straightens up, his smile returning in welcome. "Will," he breathes.

Will stops behind his chair. "How do you know my name?" he asks.

"The Great Red Dragon gave it to me," he replies. "He has told me many things."

"Will you share them with me?" Will asks, sitting down again and leaning forward. He wants Francis to think they're the only people in the world, bonded together by this great prophecy. That is how a fisherman catches the best fish. "I know that he will come during the eclipse. I know there must be an altar, a safehouse. I know who his mother is. But I don't know the ritual – I don't know what to do, to help him into this world."

Francis nods, smooth with understanding, and Will breathes out. "Will you help me?"

Francis smiles, wide and baring his sharp teeth. "Of course!" he says, leaning forward like he wants to hold Will's hands. It takes all of Will's decorum not to flinch away from his touch, to let it land. "Of course I will help you, my friend. I will tell you everything."

 

 

Hannibal is silent, standing with Jack in the observation room, his hands in his pockets and his eyes keenly focused on the back of Will's head. Will's neck is still a blister-red, marked from his own nails when he scratched himself bloody. Francis, it seems, is much more agreeable to speaking with just Will, than when he is in the room.

Jack clears his throat beside him, and Hannibal turns his head, brows raised. "What happened to Will's dog?" he asks.

Hannibal presses his lips together, sighing through his nose. "He killed it," he replies.

Jack's eyes widen, and he turns to look at Hannibal, his expression blank with shock. "He…?" He frowns, then, and rubs a hand over his mouth, shakes his head. "I thought daemons were, like, extensions of people. Aren't they?"

"They are the physical manifestation of one's soul, yes," Hannibal replies mildly.

"So he killed his soul?"

Hannibal considers that question. Then, slowly; "I don't think that's how it works," he says. "He just…removed the part that people like you and me can see."

"Why would he do that?" Jack demands.

Hannibal sighs again. "I'm not sure how much I can say," he says, ignoring Jack's aggravated huff. "You must understand, Jack, that there are conversations Will and I shared in confidence. Though he was never officially my patient, I believe the rules should still apply."

"That's not good enough, Hannibal," Jack growls. "If there's something going on with him, if he's unstable -."

"On the contrary, I don't believe he has ever been more lucid," Hannibal says. Within the confines of his mind, Mischa's presence flickers in and out, as though checking in on him. Or, more accurately, checking in on Will. She is still greatly attached to him, for a reason Hannibal cannot expressly describe considering his behavior. "Imagine going through life with a sign on your forehead, telling people exactly how you're feeling, or what you're thinking. Then, imagine having that sign finally removed. I believe this is what Will has done."

"Forged a permanent poker face?"

"Will's daemon was a shapeshifter, prone to the observations and imaginings forced upon him during his service to you," Hannibal continues, knowing the truth even as he says it. A sharp clarity etches itself into the walls of his mind, bringing with it certainty; "Now, no one knows what he is feeling. His mind is his own, to have and to hold."

Jack makes another low, annoyed sound. Hannibal is silent a moment, then;

"This could actually prove beneficial."

"I can't see how," Jack says darkly.

"Will and I hypothesized that the Cult see people who own dragons, and have daemons, as slave masters of a sort," Hannibal explains. "That one of the reasons to resurrect the Red Dragon was to free all of dragon-kind from being bonded to humans." He feels Jack's eyes on him, and smiles his way. "Without a daemon, Will appears as one of them."

Jack seems to consider this, and though his eyes remain dark, his expression clears somewhat. When dangled with the promise of a carrot, he ignores the bit, ignores the reins. "Interesting," he murmurs, and sets his eyes on Will through the one-way mirror again.

"The Great Red Dragon requires a blood sacrifice," Francis is saying. He's more animated now, the cuffs around his wrists clinking and dragging against the hook on the table as he moves his hands while he talks. "That's why he's red, you know? They say dragons are the color of their human's aura. Gold, black, silver, stuff like that."

"Do you have someone marked for sacrifice?" Will asks. Hannibal must give him credit – he sounds enthralled by Francis' conversation. Hannibal hears in his voice no disgust, no aversion. Gone is the jittery, unsure thing that he had first met what feels like a lifetime ago.

In his brain, Mischa's pride pulses warm.

"I think," he says, slowly, "that it would be best for Mischa and me to leave the area. At least until this whole mess blows over."

Jack hums, agreeing. "I think that'd be best."

Hannibal nods. "Do you have any further use for me?" he asks.

Jack shakes his head. "No. Thank you, Doctor Lecter, for all your help. Just, if you would, keep your phone on you in case I need any further insight."

"I will."

"Best of luck to you."

"Thank you." Hannibal spares one last look at Will, takes in the wayward mess of his hair, the tension in his shoulders, the curl of his fingers as he tries to make it look like he's interested in what Francis is saying, the still-raw wounds on the back of his neck. He cannot see Will's face. Perhaps that is for the best.

He takes his coat, folds it over his arm, and leaves the room. Leaves the building. He does not look back.

 

 

Will emerges from the interrogation room, on-edge, frantic to his bones. Jack comes from the observation room and Will stops, blinks, frowns when he sees a distinct lack of Hannibal at his side.

"The good Doctor had somewhere else to be?" he bites out.

Jack's expression doesn't change. "We got what we needed," he says, and Will nods, once, sharply. "We'll set up a perimeter around Saint Anne's during the eclipse. Anyone so much as sneezes around that place, we'll arrest them for the night."

"Good," Will says.

Jack regards him, long enough that the bristling energy under Will's skin snaps, shows its teeth. "Anything else?" he says.

Jack sighs, and shakes his head. "No," he replies, and rubs a hand over his face. "In fact, I think you should go home. Maybe take some time off. Until this whole thing blows over."

Will frowns. "Are you…benching me?" he asks.

"If that's what you want to call it."

"What the Hell, Jack?"

"Look, Will, I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, but you haven't been yourself lately." Will glares at him, and resists the urge to show his teeth. "And you killed your own daemon." Will blinks, and Jack sighs. "Legally, I have to get you through a psych eval before you're even allowed back into the field."

Will swallows, the anger momentarily stymied at Jack's blunt declaration. Then, it returns full force. "Hannibal told you," he growls. Jack doesn't answer. "That son of a bitch."

"He just has your best interests at heart, Will."

"No, he fucking does _not_ ," Will snaps. Jack glares at him and Will sucks in a harsh breath, rubbing his hands over his face, up through his hair. A laugh escapes him, borderline hysterical. "I can't believe this," he murmurs, and shakes his head again. "I told you – I _begged_ you not to let him get involved with this. And what did you tell me? Become his friend, you said, learn his secrets, you told me. Well, I did. I got real damn close to him, and now – _now_ …"

He stops, swallows. He can't lose his head now, not right now, not after everything.

"I know it's been hard -."

"Save it," Will snaps, holding up a hand to stop Jack's words. "I'm not interested in your apologies, or explanations, or excuses. You did what you had to do, so did I. So did Hannibal. I get it."

"Will -."

"Don't." Will flinches away from Jack, puts his back to the hallway wall, and then strides around him. "Fine. You don't want me here? I have places I can go."

"Will!"

Will stops at the end of the hallway, shoots another glare over his shoulder in Jack's direction. He breathes out, fingers curling, and forces himself not to do something stupid like punch the wall.

"You have no idea what kinda shit you've put me through," he growls. "I don't expect you to. But I'm done."

"Done?" Jack demands.

"Yeah." Will nods, breathes out again, and rolls his shoulders. Steels himself. "I'm done. I'm not going to do this anymore."

"Will, you can't just quit!" Jack's voice is getting closer now, and Will yanks open the door and leaves the hallway, into another corridor. It goes to the main office section, then the front door. Will walks, fast-paced, does not flee. "Will! Damnit, Will, stop!"

He doesn't. He doesn't look back.

 

 

Hannibal pauses when he feels Mischa press up against the corner of his mind.

"Brolis," she whispers. "Draugas is here."

Hannibal sighs through his nose, closes his suitcase, and heads downstairs. He reaches the door just as Will starts knocking.

Will looks terrible, to put it plainly. His eyes shine in the street lights, edged with smudges of sleeplessness, his hair is windswept, all in disarray, and he's breathing hard like he sprinted from his car to the front step.

His eyes sweep over Hannibal, then up. Hannibal doesn't know if he sees Mischa there, looking down at them.

Will licks his lips, rolls his shoulders, and sighs. "So," he begins. "You're leaving."

Hannibal doesn't ask how he knows. Maybe it's inevitable – maybe it was always going to come to this. Strange; Hannibal always assumed, if he did have to leave his home again, it would be due to his extracurriculars, or his diet. Not his dragon. "I think it would be best," Hannibal replies. He does not offer to let Will come inside. Will doesn't ask.

Will nods. He looks back over his shoulder, as though afraid of being followed, and then meets Hannibal's eyes again.

"You think you'll be safe, taking her somewhere else?"

"Best not to risk it," Hannibal replies. "If the Cult is as large as we'd feared, even with Jack's arrests and perimeter, it would be better to remove the threat altogether."

Will seems to accept this, shouldering the weight of responsibility like Atlas holds the sky. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets, and sighs.

"Is it selfish of me to want closure?" he murmurs.

"To want it? No," Hannibal replies. "To demand it?" He shakes his head, and shrugs.

Will sucks in a breath through his teeth, tilts his head to look at the corner of Hannibal's front door. He blinks, breathes out, rolls his shoulders. "I never expected this to happen," he murmurs. "I didn't want -."

"Will," Hannibal begins, then stops. He sighs when Will meets his eyes. He doesn't have the words, nor the time, he thinks, for them to come to any proper conclusion. Perhaps this is the way things were always going to turn out.

"I just wanted to ask," Will says, breathes the words all in a rush; "When Mischa lays her egg. Will you…can I see them?"

"That depends," Hannibal replies coolly. "Do you intend to do either of them harm?"

"No," Will replies, and then he laughs. It's a quiet, short sound. He shakes his head, and his eyes shine – with tears, with some other emotion, Hannibal could not say. "No. I really don't think I could. I just…" He closes his eyes, sighs deeply. Hannibal hears the roof creak, looks up to see Mischa peering over the edge, one golden eye fixed on the both of them.

Will looks up too, and his face softens.

"I think I'm starting to understand," he murmurs. "The…addictive quality of dragons."

"If that's how you view them, I'd warn you to stay away," Hannibal replies.

Will swallows, nods once, meets Hannibal's eyes again. "So, I suppose that's it," he says quietly. Hannibal nods. "I wanted to wish you good luck. I wanted to – fuck. I wanted to say a lot of things. But I guess it doesn't matter."

"No," Hannibal replies. "It doesn't."

"Right."

Will nods again, rolls his shoulders, and takes a step back. "Good luck, Doctor Lecter."

"And you, Will," Hannibal says. "I'll be sure to let Jack know if we are in need of the FBI's assistance, or protection."

Will flinches, gritting his teeth. "Right. Um. Well, I actually…quit today. So."

Hannibal tilts his head, raises an eyebrow.

"I figure this whole thing, it just, it showed how messed up everything was. And I didn't want any part of it anymore. I can't do it. So, I mean, if you need Jack, call him. But I won't be there."

Hannibal isn't sure if he means it as a reassurance, or a warning. He doesn't ask.

He nods, steps back and puts his hand on the door. "Good night, Will."

Will swallows, and turns away. "Good night, Doctor Lecter." He looks up. "Bye, Mischa."

"Goodbye, draugas," Mischa murmurs. Hannibal doesn't know if Will hears her, but he offers a small, weak smile, and then bows his head. Hannibal watches him go, watches as he becomes bathed in the golden glow of the street lights, watches him fade into darkness.

He closes the door, and returns to his room to keep packing. Mischa remains silent.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, well, you already know how I feel about this story, but I'm actually pretty happy with the ending, all things considered. The end notes contain a brief summary of my INTENDED ending, so you guys can see for yourself where I meant to end it, and do with that information what you will.  
> enjoy! :D

"Getting into position."

Will turns his head, leaning forward in the car to turn the volume up on the police radio. It had taken startlingly little to convince one of the officers to let him ride along, tonight. Perhaps there is something unsettling about Will, now, that does not demand obedience but coaxes it out. A promise of hot coffee, silent company, and a little extra cash had seen him parked three blocks from Saint Anne's.

Beside him, Officer Erickson or Harrison or something-son shifts his weight, clears his throat, slants an uneasy glance Will's way.

"Unit one, please respond." Jack's voice is cutting, and low.

"Unit one in position."

"Unit two?"

"In position. We're around the back. Clear visual, no movement."

"Good. Snipers?"

"Ready."

"Ready."

The radio clicks to silence, and Will swallows, sucking in a harsh breath.

"Got possible movement. Two men, approaching from the south side." It sounds like one of the snipers. "Coming your way, unit one."

"Roger that. Moving closer."

Will's fingers clench on his thigh, and he looks up, through the windshield. The moon stands out large and yellowish, and there are no clouds. Though it is meant to be full, there will be a brief span of time, no more than ten minutes, where it disappears from sight. It is in this moment that the future of the world will be determined.

He knows Hannibal and Mischa are gone. Has heard neither whisper nor mention of them. Has had no dreams, no visions, and their absence burns the back of his throat like bad whiskey. His hands are cold without a firestone beneath them. The world appears lackluster, greyed out and dim, without the gold of Mischa's eyes, her fire, and the soothing presence of the Red Dragon in his head.

Erick-Harris-something-son clears his throat, drawing Will's attention. "Waiting for something in particular?" he asks. He's Annapolis P.D., not FBI, and as a result has no actual idea what is going on.

Will smiles at him, bares his teeth. "Don't worry about it," he murmurs, and sets his eyes back on the moon.

"Clear. Couple has moved away."

"Understood. Unit two, anything happening your end?"

"Negative. We – wait." Will straightens in his seat, spine going rigid. "We might have something. Standby."

Will leans forward to turn the volume up again. There is a mess of static, frequencies clicking between each other. Will waits, and waits, breath baited, hardly moving, not daring even to blink. His eyes go upwards, to the moon, and sees it start to darken.

"Shit," he murmurs.

"We have movement. Three suspects are approaching the church. They have -."

"Is that a body -?"

Will flinches as, abruptly, the sound of gunfire rings out. It's loud enough that he can hear it, even as far away as they are, through his rolled-down window, independent of the radio.

"Unit two, respond!" That's Jack's voice, grim and quick. "Williams. Dale. Respond."

"We're taking fire. Requesting immediate backup -."

The radio goes silent for another second. Will tilts his head, listening dispassionately as another round of gunshots echoes on the otherwise quiet street. He wonders if Jack took this seriously – how many men did he bring? How many men will he lose?

"Oh my God."

"They have a fucking dragon!"

Will blinks, his eyes widening. He tears his eyes away from the moon as a bright jet of flame shoots out over the tops of the buildings. He scrambles from the car, hearing a roar from something huge and beastly. He's sprinting towards the church before he can think about it.

By the time he reaches the church, the foreground to it is a miasma of blood and broken bodies. One of the big black FBI SUVs has been overturned, and there's the arm of a man sticking out from beneath it in a huge, black pool of blood. There are two SWAT members crouched behind it, yelling into their radios.

Will hears a roar, and looks up.

Mischa is perched on top of the church roof, her claws dug deep into the spires of it, her golden eyes alight. She parts her jaws, baring her wicked teeth, fire glowing in her mouth before she lets out another thick stream of it onto the ground below, engulfing those foolish enough to get too close. Will winces, the scent of burning flesh and blood filling his nose thick enough to make him sick.

More members of the FBI and SWAT units are fleeing, their guns raised to her. She fans her wings in a powerful stroke, the wind knocking them back and Will ducks his head, shields his face with his forearm as debris from the church beats against his body.

The fire ends, burning bright behind his eyes, and he lowers his arm and blinks. The men she'd fried are not wearing any plastic gear, no bulletproof vests. They look like civilians.

"Stand down! Everyone stand down, and fall back!"

Will watches as the two SWAT men behind the truck nod to each other, keeping low as they skirt around the vehicle and into the cover of a nearby building. Will cannot see Jack, cannot see any other uniforms passing him.

He looks up, sees Mischa surveying the ground dispassionately, her tail and wings twitching like an agitated cat.

He walks forward, tries to block out the scent of burning flesh. As he approaches the burned men, he sees that there are three of them, but one is encased in a body bag, melted away. One of them has been melted to the bone, and Will tilts his head, nudges the body. It groans, half-dead, and Will's lips quirk when he sees Francis Dolarhyde's distinctive teeth shine back at him. The man's eyes flash, something like recognition, though Will doubts he's really seeing anything, and he goes still with a stuttering growl.

Mischa snarls, and Will looks up, shielding his face from the bright glow of her fire.

He smiles. "Are you going to burn me, too?"

Her jaws snap together, and she blinks, the ruffles around her horns flaring out like a dog with its ears perked. Her tail twitches, spines shifting, and she grins at him, letting out a soft purr.

"Hello, draugas," she murmurs. Will sighs, aching to the bone as her voice fills his head. She curls up around the tallest spire of the church, the stone groaning and fracturing under her weight, and drops her tail down to cover the stained-glass window above the door. "I was hoping I'd find you here."

Will blinks at her. "Really?"

"Yes," she says, smiling again. She cocks her head to one side, and her muzzle wrinkles in a snarl. Will turns, sees Jack with his weapon raised to her.

"Jack, no!" Will hisses, holding his hand out to stop him.

"Get back, Will," Jack mutters. There's blood running from a cut on his forehead, her face is a mess of grease and ash. "This is no place for a civilian."

Will growls, steps in front of Jack, grabs his gun and forces it to point at his own chest instead. "You can't hurt her," he says.

"Will, she just killed three men! And wounded a bunch of my officers!"

"Listen to yourself," Will replies. " _Wounded_. They're not dead. She – she knows who her enemies are, Jack. She's not going to hurt you if you don't hurt her."

Jack growls, his face a black mask of rage. "What the _Hell_ is wrong with you?" he demands. Will flinches, but doesn't let his gun go. The muzzle of it is hot, burning his hand. Clearly Jack has already fired some bullets, and Will fights down the flare of anger at the idea that he's already tried to shoot at Mischa. "You need to decide who's damn side you're on."

"Jack," Will says, coldly. He doesn't think he's ever been this angry before. The idea of Jack harming Mischa is unacceptable, in that moment. And he doesn't want to think what Hannibal would do if he were to discover she had suffered at his hand. "Stand down."

"I don't take orders from you," Jack snarls. He jerks his gun out of Will's grip, lifts it to Mischa, and Will doesn't even know if bullets can hurt her like they do a human, but he doesn't have the luxury of finding out.

Before he can act, though, Jack goes still, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping like a landed fish. His hands drop, slowly, and he gurgles as the gleaming end of a sharp knife presses through the back of his neck, out of the front of his throat.

Will flinches, Jack's blood flying from his neck and coating Will's hands and face in a thick, red spatter. He steps back, and Jack's eyes turn up, and, in an odd mockery of reverence, he calls to his knees.

Hannibal is behind him.

Will's eyes widen, and he takes another step back, catching his heel on the leg of a burned man and stumbling, barely catching himself on the steps leading up to the church. Hannibal regards Jack coolly, and yanks his knife back out, and Jack's blood is a waterfall of red. It flows from him like the gold from the altar of Will's dream, pools towards him despite gravity, stains his shoes.

Hannibal clears his throat, wipes his knife on Jack's shoulder, and lets him fall to the side in a hunk of dead meat. He puts his knife away, into the pocket of his coat, and then his eyes alight on Will. They're black in the darkness, not even the moon present to illuminate him – nothing but the firelight of candles flickering within the church. It paints him as something otherworldly, a creature of shadow and malice.

Will swallows, scrambles back and pushes himself to his feet. His hands are slick.

"You were…" He stops, clears his throat, manages weakly; "You were supposed to leave."

Barely-there, a flicker of a smile passes over Hannibal's face. He looks up. "We couldn't leave without you."

"Me?" Will repeats, faint. He wonders, half-mad, if this is just another dream. Perhaps he's still in the police vehicle. Maybe he's at home, sweating and moaning his way through his nightmares, aching for the presence of the Red Dragon, or Mischa, or _anyone_ with a kind smile and warm stone.

Hannibal nods, and holds his hand out. It's bare, caked in blood, and Will, despite himself, takes it.

Hannibal does smile, then, fully. "Would you like to meet your son?"

Will turns, looks up to see Mischa smiling down at them. He's all-too-aware that Hannibal still has a knife. He could attack Will, in a moment of distraction, a moment of weakness. He still might.

He looks back to Hannibal. "She's already laid her egg?"

Hannibal nods. "It's inside," he murmurs, and Will frowns, and looks down at the massacre at their feet. How fitting, he thinks, that the Red Dragon would be born into a night of blood and fire. "They were foolish men, to attack a dragon's nest. Would you like to see?"

Will swallows, clears his throat. "Am I welcome here?"

Mischa's laugh echoes Hannibal's, warm and soft. Hannibal's hand tightens in his own, and he steps around Will, turning him and leading him up the stairs. "Come with me."

 

 

The innards of the church are bare, with pillars of octagonal stone. Will has never stepped foot within this church before, except he has, because it's exactly like the one he dreamed about. Down to the altar, at the far end, which sits as a block of brilliant alabaster.

There's a hole in the back wall where glass once sat, open now like a giant, gaping mouth. Through it, Mischa climbs – first her regal head, gold shining in candlelight, then her front claws curl around the edge of the window. Then, her wings fan out, kicking up warm, humid air, and she jumps down with a purr, fanning her wings, and curls around the altar.

In front of it sits an egg. It's the size of Will's chest, and gleams slick, freshly-laid. Around the egg is a pool of half-melted iron and gold, and Will doesn't know where it came from, how they managed to get it here, but here it is.

He lets go of Hannibal and walks towards it, unable to stop himself just as he would be unable to command the tides change course, to stop an avalanche, to tell the sun to rise in the west.

He steps up to the egg, Mischa's large golden eyes blinking slowly at him like a sunning cat. She smiles at him, and leans in to touch her nose to Will's cheek. Will shivers, cupping her face with one blood-slick hair, and turns his forehead to her cheek. She's been eating. He can smell flesh and blood in her mouth.

"My dear," Hannibal says, and Mischa pulls away. "We must go, before the cavalry arrives."

She nods. "Draugas, are you coming with us?" she asks, all innocence.

Will frowns, and looks to Hannibal, then the egg. He wants to reach out and touch it, but stops himself. He does not know what will happen, if he does.

Hannibal lets him think, before he says; "Will." It's gentle, the sound of his name. Will's eyes snap to his. "I'm afraid I must agree with Jack. It's time to decide who's side you're on."

"Sides," Will repeats, shaking his head. "Why does it have to be about choosing sides?"

Hannibal seems to consider this, lips pursed, hands in his pockets. "I suppose you're right," he replies mildly. "But it's a choice, all the same. No one saw you here – or, rather, the only witness is dead. Mischa and I will not implicate you, but we must leave. For our own safety. You can choose to come with us, or you can stay, and go back to your house, and your life, and put all of this behind you."

Will presses his lips together, his head strangely full of static. Hannibal doesn't move, and Mischa doesn't move – they stand as monuments, sentinels between what lies ahead, and what lies here. Before and after. Evolution and static.

"You'd let me come with you?" he murmurs, frowning.

Hannibal smiles. "Think of it as an opportunity for closure."

Will hesitates. His hand is still on Mischa's cheek, her warm and delicate scales soothing the burn from Jack's gun. He swallows.

Was there ever really a choice?

He can hear sirens in the distance, and Mischa lets out a soft, worried noise. "Brolis," she says.

Hannibal nods, and approaches her. He steps onto her foreleg, and then swings a leg over her back so his knees settle just in front of her wing joints. He looks to Will, and holds out a hand.

Will reaches out, lets their palms graze. Hesitates again.

Hannibal smiles, faint and fond. "You won't fall," he murmurs.

Will nods, and lets Hannibal haul him up onto Mischa's back. She has the same size and build of a large horse, and Will sits behind Hannibal, his hands clutching tightly at the other man's coat. Mischa rises to her feet, and turns, breathing fire onto her egg so that the metal melts and collects as a slick pool on the floor. It rolls, slightly, to one side. In the light of her fire, Will can see the shape of a tiny dragon, curled up as though in sleep.

She nudges the egg gently, rolls it onto its side, and rears up to cradle it in her claws. Will lets out a soft, worried sound, his hands wrapping around Hannibal's waist and holding tightly, so that he doesn't fall or slide back.

Then, with a powerful push of her hindlegs and a snap of her wings, Mischa jumps to the window. The landing is jolting, and Will lets out a quiet, shocked gasp at the sudden rush of cold air, shoving his face to Hannibal's shoulder.

She drops on the other side, wings flaring to catch the air, touches the ground and pushes off again. The wind whips around them, like claws and talons to get Will to fall, but Hannibal sits strong, assured, and reaches back with one hand to hold Will's thigh, cementing them together as Mischa's wings catch the air, and they fly away. Will watches the blue and red of sirens as they approach the scene, and then he closes his eyes, and buries his face in Hannibal's coat.

 

 

He doesn't know how long they fly for, but eventually, the lights of Baltimore fade away, replaced with the inky blackness of forests, of the bay. Will manages to get himself to loosen his hold on Hannibal, though he still presses close for warmth. The air is frigid, the wisps of low-hanging clouds dampening their hair and making Will shiver. He looks around him, the brilliant pinpricks of stars, the shine of the yellowy moon, the way they glint off the gold on Mischa's head and her eyes as she wheels and glides through the air.

She folds her wings and begins a slow, lazy, spiraling descent, and Will braces himself for the landing as she snaps her wings back, fans them in a series of quick, circular motions, and lands on her hindlegs in front of a cabin. It's an imposing-looking building, and sits right on the edge of the bluffs. She sets her egg down and curls around it immediately to keep it warm, and Hannibal swings his leg over her neck, sliding down her foreleg and into a neat landing at her side.

Will follows suit much less gracefully, wincing at the ache in his thighs from sitting astride her scales, the sharp dip of irritation from one of her spines where it rested against his lower back.

He looks around. "Where are we?"

"The northern-most tip of the bay," Hannibal replies, turning to face him. "I have owned this cabin for many years. We were here, for a time, before -."

He stops.

Will tilts his head to one side, and approaches him. They join in standing, facing the cliffs. Close as they are, it would be easy for Hannibal to push Will into it, or vice versa. His fingers clench, and curl, still-wet with blood and rainwater.

"Why did you come back?" he whispers.

Hannibal looks at him. Will can feel his eyes on the side of his face, but he doesn't look back. "We came back for you, Will," he says. Will swallows, nods, clenches his jaw.

"Why?"

Hannibal sighs, and turns his gaze away. His shoulders roll. "Come inside," he murmurs. "You're not dressed for flying, and you'll catch a chill."

Will nods, and follows Hannibal into the cabin. The air is warm inside, lit from a fire in the hearth which blazes brightly. Hannibal leads him to a kitchen area, opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of chilled white wine. He pours them both a glass, and hands one to Will.

Will takes it, drinks in silence. Hannibal swirls his around, looking down at the liquid as though it might hold the secrets of the universe within, and sighs.

"I suppose I was in need of my own closure," he finally says. Will tilts his head to one side. "I don't like leaving something unfinished. And our relationship is…tumultuous." Will huffs. Understatement. "But it would be dishonest of me to say that, for the most part, I have not enjoyed it. You are interesting, and far more unpredictable than even I could have imagined, and Mischa's affection for you is something I cannot ignore."

"Her affection for me," Will repeats, taking another drink. "Not yours."

"They are one and the same, at times," Hannibal says honestly, lifting his eyes to meet Will's. "Just as your emotions, and that of a dragon, overlap. I think there is great potential, for all three of us, if we could come to some sort of agreement with each other. We could be content."

"My daemon is dead, Doctor Lecter," Will says, harshly. "My agency traded between you and Jack like a child between divorcees."

Hannibal smiles. "But you broke free from Jack," he says. "Do you wish to break free from me, as well?"

"I thought I did," Will replies, for Hannibal is being honest, and it's only fair that he is honest in return. "Now, I'm not so sure."

Hannibal nods. "If you wish to leave, you can. You may even stay here, if you like. Mischa and I will not remain in America for much longer." He pauses, and takes a drink of wine.

Will swallows, looking down. "We have a great capacity to hurt each other," he says, and catches Hannibal nodding. "I blamed you for what I've been through. I've blamed Mischa. I blamed Jack. After a while you have to ask yourself if you're the problem."

Hannibal laughs, and it's a quiet sound. "How self-aware."

"I still don't like how things happened," Will says, for it needs to be said. "But how I behaved, and how you behaved…. It's a learning curve, I suppose."

Hannibal hums.

"You killed Jack," Will murmurs. "Easily. Very easily."

Hannibal's eyes meet his. They're still dark, swallowing the light.

"I thought, maybe, that I could save myself. If I distanced myself from you. If I killed my daemon. If I quit, and went back to my empty house. Maybe…maybe I can't save myself." He sighs, and takes another drink. "Maybe that's alright."

"I don't think you need to be saved, Will," Hannibal says mildly. "You're in no danger."

"Aren't I?" Will replies, one brow rising. "You still have a knife in your pocket."

Hannibal smiles. "Do you think I intend to use it on you?"

Will huffs a laugh. "No," he says. "Not right now, anyway. You're still curious about my potential."

Hannibal nods. He doesn't argue. Will likes that – he doesn't think he could stand another second of people trying to talk to him, to convince him to see the world one way or the other.

He looks away, out through the large windows, to where Mischa is still curled around her egg, her fire stone gleaming and illuminating the shadow of the fledgling. "Do you know who the egg will hatch for?" he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. "I have theories."

Will hums, and sets his glass down, and thinks that, of all the reasons Hannibal might pose for why he returned, this would be the most honest. "Well, let's test them, shall we?"

Hannibal smiles, and sets his glass down as well. As they pass the door, Hannibal stops him, and offers him a coat. Will shrugs it on with a grateful smile, thankful for the thick layer as it provides some protection from the gusty gale of the wind from the bluffs.

He approaches Mischa, who lifts her head, tongue snaking out. "Hello, draugas," she murmurs, her voice filling Will's head with heat and light.

He smiles. "Hi, sesuo," he replies warmly. He steps closer, and nods to the egg. "May I?"

"Of course," she replies, and moves away until only her tail is wrapped around the egg to keep it warm. Will breathes in deeply, his fingers flexing. He looks to Hannibal, and while his expression is impassive, his eyes are alight with eagerness.

He looks back at the egg, takes the final step, and lays his hands across it.

It's warm, dried now from their long flight, and feels oddly delicate, as though he could break it apart with his bare hands. He pushes against it, testing, but it does not yield. Without Mischa's fire stone lighting the innards, Will cannot see the hatchling move, but he thinks he can feel it, feels the press of it like human babies when they kick.

But nothing else. He laughs, sheepishly, and withdraws his hands.

"I almost expected it to hatch for me," he says.

Hannibal smiles, and Mischa lets out a sharp trill. She fans the air with her wings, and touches her nose to Will's shoulder.

"Remember what the man said."

Will looks to her, frowning. Hannibal, too, seems confused when he looks to him.

Mischa blinks, fins rippling around her head. She clicks her teeth together and her voice, when she speaks, is impatient; "The man with the teeth," she adds, and looks to Will. "Dragons require blood."

Will's brow furrows, and he bites his lower lip. He turns towards Hannibal and holds out his hand.

The handle of the knife slips into it, and Will sucks in a breath, turns his palm up and runs the blade across it, wincing and hissing at the sharp sting of pain.

Hannibal lets out an amused noise, stepping up beside him. "The back of your hand would have hurt less."

"Thanks, _Doctor_ ," he replies, and hands the knife back. He curls his fingers and squeezes, watches as blood wells up and drips down his wrist, onto the grass below his feet. He steps forward again, and flattens his bleeding hand upon the egg.

He feels the push of the hatchling again, this time more insistent, and when he presses down, the shell gives with a sharp crack. Will flinches, his eyes widening, but Hannibal is suddenly there, holding him at the elbows, his chest flush to Will's back.

"Keep your hand there," he murmurs. "You must be the first thing he touches."

Will nods, once, shivering at the feeling of Hannibal's warm breath on the back of his injured neck. He presses his other palm flat to the eggshell, feels it give, and slick fluid like the uncooked white of an egg wells up around his hands.

He curls his fingers, digs his nails into the cracks, and pulls. More fluid rushes out, coating his arms and his feet and spilling in a slick pool. Mischa is purring loudly, wings fluttering in delight, and then Will pulls a piece of the egg away, revealing the hatchling's head.

He gasps, his chest tight and feeling too large for his ribs, and he gently cups its face. Its eyes open, big and golden, and it lets out a happy little chirp.

The dragon is a pure, deep red, the color of blood from a jugular. It has a crown of golden scales on its head, and thick frills around its face and neck like Will's daemon bore when it was a dragon. Its belly is a splotchy mess of black and gold, the delicate membranes of its wings translucent and pink like rare meat.

It chirps at him, and Hannibal lets him go, and the fledgling claws its way out from its egg. Its talons are black, and its tail is wickedly spiked with little black spines as well. It chitters at him like a young bird, blinking up wide, golden eyes, and pushes itself out of its egg and into Will's arms.

It is not the Great Red Dragon. It's coloring is too impure, its voice too sweet and small. The eclipse has passed, and the ritual did not have a chance to complete itself. He feels the truth in this, as easily as the dragon's delicate scales.

Will gasps, his breath stuttering. The hatchling is ablaze with heat, its firestone so bright it's white, pulsing with warmth. He touches it, and feels fire run up his skin, sinking into his veins from the open wound on his palm.

Then, his hand seals shut, so there is no wound at all.

 _Touch my stone. Heal your hands_.

Mischa rumbles with pleasure, and Will can hardly see for the tears in his eyes. He looks at Hannibal, finds him smiling.

"What is his name?" he asks.

Will swallows, and swallows again. He looks down at the dragon in his arms. It's the size of a small housecat, and rolls over, wriggling happily in the crook of Will's arm. It purrs, letting out a little puff of smoke, and lets its head hang lazily on Will's shoulder. Its tongue flicks out, touching Will's ear.

"Kraujas," it says, the voice high with youth, but vaguely masculine.

"Kraujas," Will repeats.

Hannibal hums, giving a nod of approval. "It means 'Blood'," he says, smiling at Will. "Fitting."

This must be a dream. And yet, as Will holds the dragon, Kraujas nuzzles his neck, the heat and golden light of his consciousness pressing up at the side of Will's brain. Behind him, he feels Mischa, and through her, Hannibal. All of them gleam like shining stones, alight with joy, and Kraujas makes himself at home in the base of Will's skull where his daemon sat, even as he curls up around Will's neck.

He is crying, now, tears welling up and unable to be blinked back. He wipes at them, smearing old blood and the innards of the egg across his face. Hannibal lets out a soft sound of amusement, pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and steps close, wiping Will's face with gentle touches.

Kraujas' purr fills his head, and Will is too small, too light. He might float away if Hannibal stops touching him.

His fingers curl in Hannibal's sleeve, and he rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder, shivering. Hannibal finishes cleaning his face, pockets the handkerchief, and threads his fingers gently through Will's hair. It's a soothing, calming touch.

"It feels wonderful, doesn't it?" he asks, low and awed.

Will nods, sucking in a shaky breath. Kraujas chirps, and jumps from him, crawling along the ground and finding a comfortable spot under Mischa's wing. Will wants to follow, and curl up against her flank.

He pulls away from Hannibal, too unsteady to let go of his coat. His fingers curl. "What -?" He stops, clears his throat, tries again; "What happens now?"

Hannibal smiles. "He will not be able to fly for a month or so," he says, and Will nods. "But we can carry him."

"Where are we going?"

"Home."

Mischa and Hannibal say it at the same time. Will blinks at them. "Where's home?"

"Lithuania," Mischa chirps, grinning. "We will be free there." She bends her neck, touches her cheek to her son's. Will feels the pulse of warmth between them in his own chest, his heart stuttering, lungs seizing. The chill air doesn't touch him, surrounded as he is in dragonfire.

"…We?" he repeats, looking to Hannibal, for he cannot believe it's real. Still, it all feels like a dream, and if it is, he will kill the man who wakes him.

Hannibal smiles, and nods. He takes Will's hand, folds it between both his own. Will's fingers curl. "It's your decision, still," he says. "No one may compel a dragon to divert from his or her desires, and you and Kraujas are a dragon and rider, now. You may do as you see fit."

Even from beneath his mother's wing, Will feels Kraujas' consciousness pulse with approval, and he understands the truth in it. He could say 'No'. He could take his dragon, now, and go away with him. Somewhere remote, somewhere quiet, where they will be at peace. He can sense, in his mind, that though Kraujas is delighted at the presence of his nestmates, he will not argue with Will, if Will decides to leave.

He doesn't want to leave.

He looks to his dragon, meets his golden eyes, and Kraujas chirps at him, slithering out from beneath his mother's wing, and jumps into Will's arms again. Will catches him, breathlessly laughing, and closes his eyes as the dragon nuzzles under his jaw and lets out a tiny purr.

"We'll go with you," he says, and feels Mischa's delighted approval, Hannibal's softer, affectionate pleasure following behind. "I need to – I need to learn. How to be a good rider."

Hannibal touches Will's shoulder, and smiles at him when Will meets his gaze. "Wonderful," he says. "I shall be happy to teach you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the secret ending:
> 
> It focused more on the possession of the great red dragon over Will, I had it in my head that his daemon would breed with Mischa but didn't remain a dragon, and Will ended up staying with Hannibal because he was dragon-ing out and needed help. Cue them realizing the cult wanted the egg and Will kind of snapping, but because he was possessed by the dragon, he tries to bring Mischa to the cathedral, and so ends up a mizumono type ending (so instead of will killing his daemon, Hannibal guts will and his daemon dies as a result), and in doing so he also 'kills' the great red dragon inside of Will.
> 
> And Mischa lays her egg but because the FBI is almost here, and the cult is closing in, Hannibal is forced to leave the egg and Will, barely clinging to life, touches the egg and it hatches for him and heals him, and Will ends up stealing away with the egg and raising it.
> 
> And then the next significant date in the draconian calendar, Hannibal returns with Mischa because she's like 'what the FUCK where is my EGG' and they find Will with the hatchling and Will is like 'you're not taking him, he's mine and he's not going to let you hurt me again' and Hannibal would never force a dragon to bear through the loss of its rider, so he decides to stay with Will instead and basically monitor/watch him to make sure Will doesn't go crazy again.
> 
> And they end up being a weird dragon family in the woods and when the red dragon kills his first person (a cult member who tracked them down) Will is still half-crazy and starts to eat it with his dragon and Mischa finds them and of course she's ecstatic and shows Hannibal, and Will is all panicky like 'shit what did I just do/what do I do' and then of course plot twist Hannibal eats people too so he just is like 'babe it's okay just let me cook it for you so you don't get sick'.
> 
> So that's kind of where I was going with it, but of course Will yeeted and his daemon yeeted and everyone fucking YEETED. And this ending doesn't really address Hannibal's diet, but we can assume that as Will becomes accustomed to being a rider, Kraujas also wants to eat humans and he's........strangely okay with it, because his dragon is okay with it, and they end up one big happy dragon family.
> 
> So, yeah. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left encouragements on this fic, I'm sorry it was such a wild, uncontrolled ride. But hey! I learned something from it, and that's always good. 
> 
> I'll see you guys in the next story! Have a great day/night!


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